


Domino

by RacheTanz



Category: Sam & Max
Genre: Anyways, Flint Paper shows up a lot as the two work together, Sybil and Bosco will also make a few appearances, and im only putting it in the main tags cos it has nowhere else to go, by gays for gays, not rly any ships other than implied sam/max, thats a lil complicated lol, this is mostly about Domino and the side characters, this is where im putting all my nonsense relating to my fancharacter Domino, tho Sybil and Abe are... mentioned to be in a relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2020-11-24 00:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RacheTanz/pseuds/RacheTanz
Summary: Series of short little things I've written for/about my fancharacter Domino Dogim actually quite apprehensive to post this but its a solid way to share w friends so here it is asdfghjkl





	1. Guard Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to Domino's backstory from my Tumblr blog, if you're curious. If you're just bored and looking to read some dumb fanfic, carry on! Ya don't necessarily have to know them to enjoy these random oneshot-y things.  
https://scourgadow.tumblr.com/post/187883100904/character-backstory-domino-dog-finally-got

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dog Bonding-Time

“So, we’re the leftovers, eh?” 

Sam looks over at the red-haired dog opposite him, on the other side of the wall, peering through the giant hole the Maim-Tron 3000 had blasted in it. They’re grinning quite cheerily, unusual for them, perched on the sofa Flint bought sometime after they joined him (or maybe they dragged it in, hell if Sam knows) with their paws on the back of it. “I guess so,” he admits a little despondently.

Unusually, Flint had proclaimed he needed Max’s help with some part of a case or something, and Max had, of course, readily agreed to some one-on-one time with his role model. Flint was kind as ever in explaining to Sam that he “had to borrow” his fuzzy little pal, and given the Freelance Police didn’t have a case they were working currently, Sam couldn’t have reasonably refused, much as he didn’t want Max to go. It had been around then that Max made some quip about guard dogs that made Sam want to smack him, but it had made Flint laugh so he restrained himself with a little huff. 

And then they’d left.

…Aaaand less than a minute later, Domino was waking up from some kind of nap—kids these days seem endlessly tired and depressed, Sam thinks—and had to be caught-up with what they slept through. Unusually, they seemed entirely unbothered, and had struck up a conversation with Sam through the hole in the wall. Perhaps they were feeling uncharacteristically energetic after a nap.

“Say, d’you like tea?” They pull back from the hole.

“Uh. I guess?” Sam hadn’t drank it too terribly often, being a bit more of a coffee person, but he wasn’t particularly opposed.

“I’ve some Earl Grey…” Their voice got a bit quieter (if that was even possible) as they stepped away, and he heard quite a lot of thumping and clattering about, “somewhere ‘round ‘ere… Where’d it—Ah.” One final thud, he watches a cardboard box sail past his window of vision, and then, “It shouldn’t take too long.” 

Sam doesn’t respond, just settles down on his own couch and listens to more thumping-about, the sound of a sink running (Flint has a sink in his office?), then footsteps and they flop back into view, startling him a little. They don’t seem to notice, and have their usual moody expression on again, but he’s starting to be less likely to presume they’re angry. Their resting face just looks a bit hostile, he supposes. 

For a little while there’s a sort of uncomfortable silence. Domino just stares straight ahead, their back to him, seemingly spaced-out, until they abruptly snap back to it and sit up a bit straighter, twisting to peer over their shoulder at the older dog. “Did he happen to say when they’d be back?” 

“Nope.” Sam sighs. “We can only hope it’s before next week.”

“Yer awful mopey without the little guy ‘round, hm?” They remark and he gives them a sideways look.

“Like you’re one to talk, Emo.”

“Hah! Good one.” They yawn, turning back around. 

Another silence falls, slightly less-uncomfortable than the last one, broken by Flint’s coffee-maker beeping. Domino springs up and disappears from view again, only to return a bit later and hand Sam an only-slightly-chipped mug through the wall-hole. “Careful, ’s hot.” They remark as he takes it gingerly. He peers into the rapidly-darkening liquid, watching a dark brown colour ooze across the water from the teabag, like ink. It smells quite nice, and the steam warms his nose as he looks at it. They settle in on Flint’s couch, kicking their feet up with their back to one arm-rest, and he can hardly see them at that angle but that doesn’t particularly matter, really. 

“Thanks.” He says finally, having sorta forgotten to, and they flap a paw in a friendly sort of dismissal, taking a sip of their mug. He cringes—it hasn’t even stopped steaming yet, what are they doing?—but they don’t react at all. The two lapse into silence again and Sam finds himself getting agitated trying to think of something to say. He’s not used to so much quiet, and it feels deafening to him. “How’d you end up here, anyways?” He blurts.

“Whaddaya mean?” Domino asks in a mildly guarded tone. 

“Your accent,” he elaborates a bit awkwardly, looking over at them again. Their green eyes seem to bore into his soul. It’s creepy, he’d not seen a dog with green eyes before. “You’re, uh, not from here?”

“Family moved ’ere when I was little.” They finally answer, flatly, turning away once more. Their tone doesn’t invite further inquiry, much as he wants to follow up such a cryptic answer, and he just glances back at his mug. 

He decides to try asking something else, instead of sitting in an uncomfortable silence. “How’s working with Flint?”

“Fun,” they reply simply, taking another sip. “Better’n deliverin’ pizzas. Wot ’bout you? How is it workin’ with yer erratic li’l friend?”

“Better than a dream,” He says impulsively, then takes a sip of his tea in an attempt to mask the embarrassment.

Domino doesn’t seem to take note of it, or, if they did, they tactfully let it slide. But it’s more likely they just plain didn’t notice. They make a little noise of affirmation, peering down into their mug of tea as well, expression blankly morose as per usual. “It… doesn’t ever get _ borin’_, does it?” They ask suddenly.

He glances over, surprised, but they’re still staring at the ceiling. “No,” He answers finally. “Of course not.” They hum in response, looking pensive; curious, he leans over a bit, draping his free arm over the back of his couch and resting his chin on it. “Why?” 

They hesitate, shooting him a sideways glance, then confess, “Seems like this is gonna end up bein’ my career.”

He gives them an encouraging grin. “Well, hey, that’s great!”

Domino doesn’t respond right away, then, after a long time, abruptly says, “’S weird t’think about. I didn’t think I’d get this far.” 

Sam looks down at them for a moment and a strange sense of familiarity washes over him. That sort of an_ I know exactly how you feel _ sensation. And now he knows exactly what ought be said. “Well, are you _ glad _ you’re here?”

“I… s’pose so,” they admit in a bit of a cagey manner, and he smirks. 

“It’s alright if you never know for sure, you know,” He replies, turning away and leaning back, taking a sip of his tea. “Sometimes it’s just good enough to do whatever you feel like your whole life, regardless of how much that changes.”

A long stretch of silence follows as the oft-unused gears in Domino’s head turn. By the time they speak again, Sam has finished half of his tea. “Yer right.” They remark quietly. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he replies cheerfully. 


	2. The Case at the Orphanage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know barely anythin abt orphanages but this one is Weird anyways so just-- suspend disbelief briefly pls n thank.  
also hey here's smth concrete about Flint and Domino's dynamic how bout that

“This is the place,” Flint says grimly, standing in front of the rather stereotypically-gothic orphanage. They’d already breezed past (read, crashed through) the huge black-iron front gates, coming to a screeching halt full of righteousness directly in front of the front door. 

“Is goin’ into an **orphanage** all guns a-blazin’ _ really _ a good idea?” Domino queries, stepping out of the car and slamming the door with the swipe of a paw. 

“It’s no _normal_ orphanage, my fluffy friend,” he replies, stepping up the few weathered limestone steps to the massive wooden door. Domino pads quietly behind him, peering up admiringly at the imposing stonework. “Within these walls lies a monster… The kind of monster who’d steal from the weakest of our society, those who have already lost everything.”

Domino wonders if he’s forgotten that they were there when he realized the bastard was embezzling from an orphanage of all places, or if he’s just entertaining himself with his little monologue. 

Flint slams one hand on the door, glaring at it like somehow it’ll just open in fear, as if cowering at the vehemence of his anger. His partner behind him shoves their hands in their jeans pockets, glancing up again. “Looks like it’s gonna rain.” They comment absently.

“Shh.” 

The door creaks open slightly, and immediately Flint muscles it the rest of the way open. “Excuse me?!” The woman who answered the door sounds like she can’t decide whether to be angry or terrified, and Domino takes advantage her bewilderment to slither in behind their mentor and shut the door behind them, giving her a little nod and friendly gesture as her eyes widen in shock, processing both a strange, angry, bedraggled man and a fluffy dog nearly her height blasting in through their front door. She stays frozen as Flint stomps down the hall.

“Any idea where the main office might be?” Domino asks in a bored tone, looking around. The interior design is just as interesting as the outside, if a bit dilapidated and old-looking. Dark oak, plaster that may have once been white, the loudest creaking wood-board flooring they’ve heard in a long-ass time; it reminds them a little of their first hometown, but comfortably so.

“**Excuse me**!” The woman repeats, having found her voice and her feet, storming after them. “Who are you? Where do you think you’re—”

Flint pivots on his heel, lifting his badge from seemingly nowhere and presenting it to her. “Flint Paper, private investigator. And this here is my—”

“Drug-sniffin’ dog,” they quip with a smirk.

“_No_.” He puts the badge away. “Where’s the main office? We need to talk to the head honcho. Stat.” 

The woman looks between the two of them, wide-eyed. “Uh...Um… upstairs… the door is at th—”

“Thanks.” Flint shoves past her to head the opposite way down the hall, toward a staircase at the other end. “Don’t tip him off.”

Domino steps around her more politely, flashing what they hope is an apologetic smile but likely comes off more as some kind of snarl. Ah, well, they tried. They turn back around to glance at Flint. “Wot’s the plan?” 

“We go in, we tell him we know what he did, and either he comes with us or we _ take _ him with us.” 

Fint grabs the banister and skips the first couple steps. Domino, not nearly in so much of a rush, offers a quiet “Neat,” as they start up the stairs as well, at a much more reasonable pace. Flint doesn’t pause at the top of the stairs for them and so once they reach the top he’s already down the hall, halfway to a large door marked _Headmaster._

They sigh in mild annoyance, affording a quick look-around behind them before starting towards the hall, after him. The stairwell had opened up into a common room of sorts that was eerily empty; they suppose this place likely doubles as some kind of a boarding-school of sorts, as the other doors they pass sometimes have chattering going on behind them. A few sound like math lessons, and Domino feels sympathy on two fronts.

Something smacks into their left leg and they flinch, hard, whipping their head around to stare down as they freeze in alarm. A small child with tightly-curled brown hair around its head like a halo peers up at them, little fists curled around the fabric of their pants-leg. “Pubby?” The child asks, blinking owlish pitch-black eyes.

“Um.” Domino stares back down at them. “...’Ello.” They turn back to look at Flint as he disappears into the office, then sticks his head out to look at them.

“Come on!” He hisses.

They point helplessly to the tiny human clutching at their leg, and he glances down, then seems to sigh, and disappears from view again. A little anxious as to what they’re meant to do now, they try to step towards the door but the child won’t disengage, and they’re much too afraid of any potential injury to the child (or tantrums they’d have to weather…) to even attempt to pry it off them. “Wot d’you want?” They ask, not able to hide a little frustration.

“Pubby up?” The child lets go, stretching its hands up toward them. “Pubby up?” It repeats, and they suppress a sigh, a little wary. This is entirely new territory, but, well, they can’t see any harm in it, nor do they know how to refuse. A little nervously, they reach down and gently take hold of the kid, hefting it up by its armpits. They’re a bit surprised by the weight at first but adjust quickly, settling the child in one arm, balancing it somewhat on their hip. It immediately reaches for one fluffy ear, stroking it and crooning “pubby…”

_ Grubby hands_, they think with a little grimace, but at least the child isn’t yelling. That’s something to be glad for, anyhow. They glance back at the office door for a moment before deciding it’s likely best to put this child where it goes before heading in there. “Where d’you belong?”

“Soft.” The child keeps petting their ear with slightly-sticky hands, and they sigh. This one must be a tad bit too young to converse. Someone will know, probably. Maybe the woman they'd spoken to at the door downstairs? They turn and head back down, carefully, doing their best not to jostle the child too much. They’re not entirely sure this child is young enough that being shaken hurts them, but they’re not keen to take the risk, anyways. “Pubby soft!” The child yells, and they wince a little.

“Shh, kid, I’m right ’ere.” Domino grouches, and they’re rewarded with being smacked on the side of the muzzle with a tiny, inquisitive human hand. “Ow. Ow. Please stay relegated to th’ear area.” They tilt their nose away and the child gives up, looking around again. They reach the bottom of the stairs, and pause to readjust their grip, then glance about. The halls are dead now, weirdly enough, which is unfortunate as they’d hoped to find the woman they first met, but they shrug it off, walking along. Maybe she’ll turn up and they can hand off the kid to her. They pass several eerily-silent rooms before finally approaching one where they can hear voices on the opposite side, and without much thought they step up to it and open the door, hoping the woman might be on the other side.

They step halfway into what is clearly an active classroom of what must be kindergarteners, or something. An elderly woman sits on a small stool in front of a semicircle of assorted children, turning to look at them with a surprised expression, and they gulp, acutely aware of all the beady eyes trained on them. 

“Um. Hullo. Where’s this kid belong?” They point to the child still playing with their ear, tugging lightly on it now. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make them a little nervous and quite keen to hand it off to whomever is supposed to have it right now. 

“_Carol_,” the teacher gasps, setting down the picture book she’d been holding. “You’re not supposed to be here, you little _scamp_,” she smiles, reaching for the child—Carol, Domino presumes—and the dog shifts to let the transfer be a little less awkward. As if a spell were broken, the moment the teacher stands, her class bolts to their feet as well, racing toward this timely and welcome disruption from whatever they were learning. 

Domino instinctively steps back as two children smack face-first into their legs, and their tail fluffs a bit in surprise; they pull back a little, lifting their paws up like they’re worried they might somehow bonk one of the children in the face with them otherwise. “Doggie!” Several yell in unison, and Domino sweats slightly, glancing around.

The teacher seems quite oblivious to the children now crowded around the two adults in the room, and addresses Domino directly, in a chipper tone. “Where on earth did you find her?”

“Upstairs.” They reply simply, then add almost sheepishly, “_She _ kinda found _ me_, really.” 

She laughs, “Well, thank you for bringing her here. What’s your name, by the way?” She tilts her head to one side a little, eyeing them curiously.

“Um. Domino.” They glance down as one kid hugs their leg, a little nervous. Behind them, one swats at their tail, and they flinch.

“_Jeremy_. Don’t do that.” The teacher scolds. “Apologize to Domino, please.”

“I’m sorry Domino,” a little blonde child replies a bit robotically, though the look on his face is sincere. 

“S’alright,” they reply with a tentative nod, a little uncomfortable by being surrounded, before turning back to the teacher. “Uh, I oughta go …”

“Yes, of course,” the teacher nods. “Thank you, and goodbye.” When she moves to sit down at the stool again, the children scatter like roaches, though one remains by Domino, peering curiously up at them, looking like they want to ask a question but are far too shy.

“...Can I… _help_ ya?” They ask apprehensively. 

Big green eyes blink up at them. “Can I pet you? Um, _please_?” They ask meekly.

“Er.” Domino’s dignity wants to say no, but the sheer mental image of the ensuing disappointment painted across the child's face is too much, and they instead kneel down. “Sure.” 

The kid plants one hand in the dog’s fluffy red hair, then ruffles their fingers through it with a cheerful giggle. Domino just silently lets them, not entirely sure where to go from here—they’ve gotten themself into this and now, as per usual, have no way to get out easily.

Luckily, they’re spared when the door bumps open again, catching everyone’s attention. “Domino? The heck are ya doin’?”

The child shrinks back as Domino lifts their head. “I’m lettin’ a kid pet me ’cause he asked real nice. Wot else?” They stand up. “Didja get ’im?”

Wordlessly Flint lifts a very unconscious man by the collar, dragging him into sight from behind the doorframe. 

“Ah. Well, lessgo then.” 

The classroom is dead silent, completely baffled, as they leave, but as they walk down the hall Domino can hear the teacher begin to speak again, thankfully. 

With any luck, those kids will just remember the giant fluffy dog, and not the knocked-out mess that was their greedy asshole of a Headmaster, dangling from Flint's hands. 


	3. A Casual Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sybil makes an appearance yeehaw  
i love her a lot she deserves better ...........  
this one's sad im sorry in advance lol

“Why the hell d’you stay wi’h him, anyways?”

At a surprisingly-sleepy little café in a less-crowded nook of downtown New York, a therapist and a dog sit at an outdoor table, enjoying summer’s dying warmth. It’s one of those posh, hipster-ish cafés, with coffee and tea in glass mugs set on saucers. Indie music pours out the open door; despite the noise of the city, it’s still audible. But, so are they, at least. 

“It’s not so simple to just _ break up _ with someone you’re married to, Domino,” Sybil explains with a little sigh, looking down into her coffee. “Besides, it’s not like our relationship is _ bad_—it… has its ups and downs, like everything else in life!” 

The dog across from her hums in that way they do when they’re about to disagree with her, taking a sip of their latté and eyeing her carefully for a second. She has to restrain a glare of frustration. “T’be hones’ with ya,” they begin in that strange, drawling, half-Glasgow half-Tennessee accent, “ya seem t’be havin’ more _ downs _ than _ ups_.”

“That’s just _ lately_,” Sybil protests.

“Define ‘lately,’ ’cause y’all’ve been like this since I’ve known ya t’be together.” They point out a bit dryly, and she frowns at them. They do have a point, annoyingly enough. She and Abe have always had their issues—but no one is perfect, and she really does love him. 

She thinks she does, anyways.

“Our relationship is _ fine_,” she insists stubbornly. “We’re just having a rough patch. A… Another rough patch.”

They blow air out their nose, glancing away for a moment, and she knows they’re trying to be considerate. As considerate as someone so abrasive can be (they’re working on it), anyhow. “I jus’ think… ya should do _ better_,” They finally remark, sounding sincere, before dropping a blunt, “and _ dump _ him.” They run a paw through their shock of bright red hair. She’d never really considered if anthropomorphic dogs could grow hair like humans before she met Domino, and ever since, she’s been wondering if Sam is technically bald by dog standards. And every time they flip their mess of tomato-coloured hair (which is often, on a windy day like this) she thinks about it.

Shaking off the distraction, she frowns unhappily at them, and they wince, a hint of apology flashing across their eyes. Domino has never been great at tact, but that was pretty bad even for them. “I’m not going to give up a stable relationship for the puff of smoke that is ‘better,’” Sybil insists, “and, no offense, Domino, but you’re not exactly the most _ knowledgeable _ when it comes to relationships.”

It’s a bit of a low blow, and she knows it, and can tell it’s deeply felt by them in the way their eyebrow furrows and their jaw shuts into as close as a dog can get to a thin-lipped expression. She’d been hoping it would be harsh enough to make them change the subject but she knows she’s miscalculated when their eyes flash and they reply, brusquely, “May not know much ’bout relationships _gen’rally_, but I know wot an _ unhealthy _ one looks like.” They then lean forward a little, suddenly quite determined-looking, which is odd for someone as stoically miserable as they (usually) are. “And yer in it, pal. I’ve held m’damn tongue but I ain’t gonna let ya just keep allowin’ him to walk all over ya an’ try to change ya fer his own _ selfish _ reasons. Y’ain’t happy.”

“He doesn’t—” She starts indignantly, but they raise one eyebrow challengingly and she can’t continue, voice dying abruptly. They’re right, and she knows it, and she _ hates _ it. She looks back down at her suddenly-unappealing coffee. The fight goes out of her and she sighs again, deflating. “...Well, what the hell am I supposed to do, Domino? We have a _ kid _ now.” 

They gently put one big paw over one of her wrists, patting it in an awkward display of support. The therapist side of her is proud of them for trying to express themself more, but the normal human side of her just wants to laugh at how strange and stiff it is. Luckily, she has a lot of self-restraint (when she wants to, anyways), and just glances back up at them. They’re giving her something bordering on an imploring look. “Don’t let yer kid grow up in a household like mine was. I ain’t sayin he’s gonna _hit_ ya, but the arguments—the way y’all give each other th’_cold shoulder_—it ain’t healthy for you _or_ yer kid. They’re either gonna grow up thinkin’ tha’s normal, or they’re gonna grow up _knowin’ somethin’s wrong_. **Neither’s** good.” They withdraw their paw almost sheepishly, quickly putting it back where it was before (resting on their own mug) uncomfortably. “C’mon. Ya_know_ that.” 

She looks out at the street, and they look down into their latté briefly before taking a sip. She’s pretty unhappy with them, she won’t lie, but she knows they don’t typically talk much—at least not all in one go—so they must have been feeling this strongly for… quite some time now. Sybil feels blindsided on two fronts; realizing her marriage isn’t particularly the best, and realizing the standoffish dog across from her truly does consider her a close friend. Or a thing as near to a close friend as someone like them could stand. Bittersweet, for sure. 

“I… I’ll think about it,” she manages slowly. They nod, silent, and she takes a sip of her coffee.

It’s cold.


	4. Late Nights, Early Mornings--What's The Difference?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by those kind little interactions with strangers that hurt a lot more than can be expressed.  
At an earlier point in Domino's life--before they really were Domino--they were alone, entirely, traveling anywhere they could go. This is a short moment from that time in their life. They were 18.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writin this at a bus stop on my phone and just kinda ran with it .. it may or may not be canon, i just wanted to try writing Granny Ruth a little ‘cause I love her a lot.  
This one’s p dark in a bittersweet sorta way, leaning more toward bitter really. Deals w themes of homelessness and all the darkness that comes w that, so, if that bothers ya pls take care of yourself lads

They’d been standing at the bus stop for an indeterminate amount of time. It felt like forever, it might have only been five minutes. The rain was coming down hard, their hoodie, their fur, their very bones felt soaked-through. As if the rain were hammering away at their skeleton. That wouldn’t be too hard, given how tightly their skin clung to that framework.

They were starting to shiver.

Their hands clench in their jacket pockets but a slight tremor still winds its way up their spine, rattling their teeth, and they hiss out a curse, drawing further into themself. The bus will be here soon, they tell themself. They’ll be fine.

When the bus rolls to a stop and hisses air out, lowering, door creaking open, they stumble their way onto it, shoving a soggy two dollars and fifty cents into the collection box before staggering toward the back. The few other people taking the bus at this hour subtly shrink away, but the dog doesn’t care. They collapse into a seat along the very back row, shivering harder now, and frantically rub their paws along their arms. It doesn’t help.

The bus jolts to life, rumbling along the broken pavement, jostling and bouncing its way along, and they lean back. If they weren’t so cold, they could sleep. They aren’t quite cold enough to fall asleep, just cold enough to be uncomfortable, and it’s hardly the first time. They huff into their paws, rub them together, then huff again, but it does little to sate the ice settling in throughout their bloodstream. Maybe wherever the bus trail ends will be warmer, or at least drier. They could sneak into a 24-hour cafe. They have at least a fiver left, they could buy a pastry or something to earn the right to the shop’s warmth. 

The dog has lived about three months like this now. Nameless, alone, penniless—It’s less heartbreaking than it sounds; they chose this, after all, in a way. At least they can easily walk or run from anyone hurling abuse their way. Having no leash is freeing, and they appreciate it greatly, regardless of how much they had to sacrifice.

They sniffle. The cold’s getting to their nose. The bus thuds along indifferently, and its other passengers busy themselves looking everyplace other than the shivering mess of a dog. They absolutely don’t blame the other people for that; they’re a train wreck at present and very aware of it. Wiping at their muzzle, they huff out a shaky breath, knocking their knees together as they shiver in the seat. They’re probably going to catch cold again. They just hope this one doesn’t come with the whole fever-and-puking side effects, or they might actually die this time. They’d rather not do that, if they can avoid it, at least not of a flu. 

The bus slows to a stop, doors hissing open, but no one enters or exits; after a moment’s reflection, the driver starts the bus up once more. This repeats three or four more times—the dog is beginning to lose track, bleary-eyed from days of missed sleep and cold numbing their brain—until one particular stop. The bus doors open again, and they glance up out of sheer boredom—nothing else to watch—as an elderly brown dog with a curly mess of grey hair steps onto the bus, clad in a bright yellow raincoat, armed with a rainbow-coloured umbrella. She smiles pleasantly at the bus driver, speaking in a loud voice tinged with a Southern twang as she deposits her bus fare, “What a day! Why, you must be quite ready to get home and sleep off this _terrible_ chill.” The bus driver, if they responded, kept their reply short and quiet, likely out of fatigue, and she simply chuckled and moved toward the back of the bus. The more ill-prepared dog averts their eyes, still shivering, and simply stares at their feet as most bus-goers do as the bus lurches to life again. They weren’t expecting any company up here, but as the elderly dog climbed the stairs up to the far-back area, they realized she was coming to join them, claiming a seat nearby, but not invasively close. 

“_Mercy me_,” she huffs as she settles down, resting her umbrella against her knee, “quite the storm out there, eh?”

The dog glances up at her, unsure if she’s addressing them; from the politely expectant look on her face, they suppose she is, so they clear their throat and manage a weak, “Sure is.” 

“Why, but you look absolutely _soaked_, dear!” She peers at them, motherly concern on her face. “What’s a puppy like you doing out so late?” She rummages around in her apron for a moment before withdrawing a small towel and shoving it at them. 

“...Places to be,” they reply vaguely, gingerly taking the towel with an _‘are you sure?’_ expression on their face. 

She practically forces it into their hands, so they accept it, and she says, “Dry your fur off with that, dear, or you might freeze this evening. Lemme tell you, you _ don’t _ want ice so close to your skin! It’s so cold you’ll freeze before you can get halfway home!” They shrug off their hoodie, then begin drying off their arms, shivering more now that they’ve lost that one layer. “Here, let me help you with that,” she plucks their jacket from the seat and delicately wrings it out as they ruffle the dishrag through their hair. “You’ll still wanna dry off better when you get home, a’course, but no sense in catching cold between now and then!”

They can’t really bring themself to tell this sweet old granny they’re likely going to sleep in a Dumpster tonight, so they simply make a little noise of affirmation, politely wringing out the dishrag before handing it back. They’re still pretty soaked, but at least slightly less than before. 

“Then again, s’pose kids like you are _indestructible_, huh?” She jokes cheerfully, smiling.

They force a wobbly smile back and lie through their teeth. “Yeahr, I’ll be fine.” 

It must not be convincing, as her face twists into a worried frown. “Are you quite alright, dear? You look _exhausted_.” 

For a split second, they consider opening up. Breaking down and spilling their guts. But then that primal fear clamps down on them like metal jaws around their throat, and they clench their jaw shut. No. Telling anyone what’s happened to them is a bad idea. After all, this lady could very easily turn them in to law enforcement, who will force them to go back—Their mother has surely put out a missing persons report by now. She’s lost her punching bag and will be wanting it back, but they’d rather have a shot at a different life. So they plaster a more real smile on their face and muster up a brighter, higher tone of voice. “I’m a’right, ma’am, jus’ cold. Thank ya.”

She smiles back, but a little sadly, and they know she isn’t entirely convinced. But she also knows her place as an utter stranger, and simply pats the disheveled dog on the shoulder. “Well, make yourself a mug of cocoa when you get home, and snuggle up in a quilt and get yourself some good sleep so you don’t catch cold.” 

They almost want to cry, but they’ve had enough practice to bite down on that urge too, still grinning falsely. “Promise I’ll take care o’m’self,” they reply vaguely, and she gives them a more genuine smile. 

The bus trundles along for quite some time before the old lady eventually stands again with a final “You take care now, dearie!” as she steps toward the back door of the bus. They mumble an affirmation of some kind as she disappears from sight.

They’re all alone on the bus now, but at least they’re less cold than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no it wasnt raining when i wrote this nor is this a vent sdfghjk i just wanted to do somethin w the premise and had nothin better to do when my bus was runnin late ':]


	5. Happy Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i usually have mediocre-at-best holidays but goddamnit even if ive no control over my own shit i control theirs and imonna give them a Good Tiem for once. Dont @ me i need this.  
as a side note, this chapter introduces Domino's brother, Adam. i'd planned to give him a Real Introduction here but this thing got finished first. a TL;DR on him: he's Domino's little brother, 18 years old, and they were estranged for a while when Domino ran off. when their mother passed, he found them again, and after a bit of a rocky start they both work with Flint now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a christmas centric fic purely cause im american and christmas is fucken everywhere, it’s the holiday m family celebrates and the only one I genuinely Know, but iont headcanon any sort of like. Religiousness to any of the characters. The holiday in america is so commercialized most people dont give it religious significance these days anyhow lolol-  
its not taking place On Christmas just Around That Tiem.  
alos i know this is TECHNICALLY late for a christmas fic bite me-

Despite everything, Domino still hesitates in the car. 

Beside them, Adam, too, seems to have a little trepidation, bending the rim of his baseball cap in his black paws. The two stare silently at the house out the right-hand window, each with a paw on the door handle. “Ya think he’d be mad if we bailed?” Adam asks softly, bright-blue eyes filled with worry.

“Nah,” they sigh. “He’d be _ disappointed_.”

They both know that’s **much** worse.

“Maybe it’ll be okay,” Adam suggests as he puts his hat back on his poofy-haired head, ever the optimist, albeit often in words only. His paw curls around the door handle, yet they both still pause, uncertain somehow. 

Finally Domino sighs, releasing the tension by force. “It won’t be too bad.” They don’t believe it, but they’ll pretend, for Adam’s sake, and for their dad’s.

They pop open the door and step out, shivering briefly in the abrupt chill and for the billionth time wishing they owned some kind of coat, or at least something sturdier than the Nine Inch Nails t-shirt they’re wearing. Adam hops out his side, shutting the door and hustling to catch up; he can’t help but kick at the snow a little gleefully. He’s always loved the snow, and his wardrobe is more tailored to winter, to boot. 

Flint’s apartment is oddly normal-looking from the outside, in comparison with his office and his lifestyle. The pavement to his door has been shoveled, the snow piled neatly on one side, and it’s the only doorway that has been shoveled, suggesting he did it himself for whatever reason. The two step up to the front door, and Domino rings the doorbell, exchanging a bemused glance with their brother when they hear quite a lot of excited clattering on the other side of the door. It’s yanked open and they’re both quickly tugged inside with a “C’mere, you’ll freeze to death out there!” 

The interior is warm, both temperature-wise and in aesthetics. Hardwood flooring, a black, gold-lettered Welcome mat beneath their feet, carpeted stairs ahead of them stretching up and then hooking a turn, disappearing from their view, warm yellow walls; winding up the banister are red-and-green ribbons tied haphazardly, and paper snowflakes hang from the doorways and a few of the picture frames. The living room is off to the left, doorway open and inviting. It looks halfway between a competent but rushed adult’s work and that of an overexcited small child being given free reign of the decor for the season.

“You two go socialize,” Flint says as he shuts the door behind them, “I’m still workin’ on the food. Go! **Shoo**!” He lightheartedly pushes the two dogs toward the living-room door, and Adam looks to Domino for some sort of guidance. The older dog, fairly sure they have at least a passing familiarity with Flint’s friends, takes the lead and steps into the living room, their brother trailing behind them.

It’s small, clearly well-lived in, but comfortable. The floor is carpeted with the addition of a dark red circular throw-rug atop it, and the walls are a fairly neutral faded-lemon sort of colour. A window with the shades drawn back takes up a decent portion of the left-hand wall, with fake snowflakes taped to it. An over-decorated Christmas tree sits in the opposite corner, next to an old television that isn’t on. Three couches sit in a sort of an arc around the television, and on those couches sit a few familiar faces. So many different Christmas decorations litter the room that they all seem to blend together into holiday-themed white noise.

It makes them nauseated.

“Domino!” Sybil greets them with a warm smile as they step around one of the couches. “Good to see you!”

They sit down next to her. “’Ello, Sybil.” Adam plunks down next to them, wary of the strangers in the room, but doing his best to keep a polite little smile on his face. 

“And _ you _ must be Adam,” Sybil leans a bit to look at him. 

“Yeahr, tha’s me,” he replies almost shyly, extending a paw. 

Sybil takes it and gives it a good shake. “I’ve heard a lot about you! Nice to finally meet.” 

He seems a bit taken aback by that, but smiles nonetheless, and manages an awkward “Likewise!”

Fortunately the trio are spared of further uncomfortable interaction by footsteps and voices coming down the hall. 

“A shame he doesn’t want us to help out with the food,” Max remarks as he enters the room, his partner right behind him, still wearing his winter jacket for some unknowable reason. “What’s the point in cooking if you don’t set at least _ one _ thing on fire?”

“I suppose he has no use for our culinary **expertise**, little buddy.” Sam adds, and Domino raises an eyebrow at the two of them. They hadn’t known either could cook, and are extremely skeptical of the concept, especially given Max’s statement. Max claws his way up the back of the couch nearest him, thankfully not the one they’re sat on, then flops down next to a man they don’t recognize. Sam, being slightly more civilized, walks around the couch to settle down on the man’s opposite side.

It’s about then that Domino realizes the man has some kind of bizarre alien creature sticking out of his chest, and they do a double-take, not sure their eyes aren’t screwed-up somehow. But no, there’s an entire tentacle-y being hanging out of his shirt, and the reality is further cemented by Max striking up a conversation with it.

“Dr. Norrington! How’s it hangin’? Still stuck to Fishbait’s weaselly torso, I see.” He beams.

And the creature replies, in a strangely smooth and scholarly voice, “Indeed I am, Max. We still haven’t found a way to separate without one or both of us dying.” He sounds a bit dejected, and from the look on the guy’s face it’s a mutual sort of despondence. 

“Aw, you’ll get it eventually!” Sam pats the thin man on the back a bit too roughly, knocking his fez almost off his head, but he doesn’t complain, just glares and readjusts it. In doing so his eyes catch Domino’s, and they give him what they hope is a neutral look, waving slightly. It must be good enough as he gives them a brief friendly smile in return before turning his focus back to the two Freelance Police talking to his… what they can only assume is some kind of symbiote. One with a doctorate, no less. Fascinating, on some level.

“So, what have you two been up to?” Sybil’s voice brings their focus back to the couch they’re actually sitting on.

They turn to look at her again. “Oh, y’know, same ol’ same ol’. Last case we went on was a **helluva** thing…” Adam always liked telling stories more than they did. Maybe if they get the ball rolling, he’ll take over, and get comfortable.

* * *

Adam had gathered a little crowd, so to speak, of people curious to hear his stories. Letting him do all the talking was refreshing—gave Domino time to rest their oft-unused voice—and also gave them the opportunity to sneak off the couch when he had the spotlight. They felt like they needed to stand for a bit, or something, so they decide to lean against the doorway and peer absent-mindedly down the hall. A little break from the socializing. 

They’re not the only person to have that idea, as eventually the short fellow with the fez breaks off from one of the groups, finally escaping Sam and Max to stand adjacent to them, catching their attention with a sigh. 

They glance over, ironically at the exact same time he glances to them, so they instinctively offer a polite “’Ello.”

“Hello,” the man answers, a little bit guardedly. He has quite the strange accent, one they’ve not heard before. 

“Who might you be?” Dr. Norrington inquires, and they tilt their head down a little to look at him dead-on, presuming that’s polite. 

“Name’s Domino.” They stick one paw out to him, a bit awkwardly as they can’t quite tell if he even has hands, but then he grabs hold of two of their fingers and shakes their hand with one tiny little two-fingered mitt that had been hidden behind his tentacles from their viewing angle. It’s almost mind-bending. “If ya don’t mind my askin’... Wot _ are _ ya?” 

He sighs as if he gets this question quite a lot, and they have to bite back an apology as he begins, “I’m an elder god—”

“The great Yog-Soggoth!” The man buts in.

Dr. Norrington rolls his eyes, but carries on his little clearly-rehearsed spiel. “Yes. I’m technically not supposed to be here, as I’m from the Dark Dimension, but my companion here, Monsieur Papierwaite, botched a summoning and now we’re stuck this way.”

They pause, processing, then offer a simple, “Unfortunate.”

“Very.” He agrees, studying them. “You seem quite _ unbothered._”

“I’ve seen weirder.” They shrug, then add by way of an explanation, “I used to deliver pizza.” Both nod sagely, Papierwaite grimacing a bit. Maybe Norrington does as well, but they don’t know how to read expressions on his tentacled mess of a face. Curious now, they tip their head to one side. “Wot d’you do?”

Both seem to brighten at the chance to talk about their work. “**I** am an archeologist,” Papierwaite says proudly, and Domino briefly remembers how when they were quite young they’d wanted to be an archeologist. Then again, that was before they knew how much work it really was. It wasn’t just all digging up dino bones, unfortunately. “**We’re** joint Curators at the Museum of Mostly Natural History!” 

“The Museum of Mostly Natural History?” Domino’s ears lift slightly. “I’ve been meanin’ ta check that place out fer a while now.” 

“Oh, please _ do _ come by,” Dr. Norrington urges pleasantly.

“Next weekend we have a demonstration of Natural and Unnatural Lights Across Dimensions, for the holidays. You should come see the show!” Papierwaite adds with a grin. 

“I do like lights,” They muse, wondering if maybe Joey and Adam would like that. A little family outing, perhaps, next weekend. If Flint could come as well then it’d be quite perfect.

“Then I’m sure you would like it.” Papierwaite nods at them, then admits, “It’s… not really too complicated.”

They snort. “Yeahr. But not everythin’ needs t’be.”

“Sounds quite wise,” Dr. Norrington observes.

“Nah. I’m jus’ willfully stupid.” Domino scratches their neck beneath the collar, looking back over at Adam. He's starting to look a little overwhelmed, like he's running out of stories, or social stamina. Neither is good. “If ya don’t mind… I think I gotta rescue my brother from his audience.”

“He’s your brother?” Papierwaite seems a little surprised. 

They nod. “I suppose the family resemblance is more in the face than the attitude,” Dr. Norrington observes good-naturedly. 

“Yeahr. He’s more, uh, social.” They mumble, glancing around. “Anyway. Happy holidays.” 

“Same to you,” the two say in an eerie unison that, by their reactions, disturbs them as well. 

They nudge through the 'crowd' to grab the now-somewhat-overwhelmed Adam by the paw, loudly announcing, “I need yer help.” They tug him into the hall, out of sight, halfway to the kitchen.

He breathes a sigh of relief, leaning against the wall, gaze to the floor. “Thanks, Dom’.”

“No prob. Ya doin’ okay?” They tip their head to one side.

He woofs quietly. _ Just tired. _

They nod. “I get it. I can cover for ya, if ya need me to.”

“Nah,” Adam shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. This is just—” He sucks in a breath, then heaves it out in another sigh. “It’s a li’l much… But I’ll be okay.” He lifts his head to look at them. “Whuh’bout you?”

“I’m fine,” They fire back immediately, just out of habit, then, when he doesn’t acknowledge it, they continue, “I’ve barely talked to anyone. I’m a’ight.” 

“Okay,” he nods. “I’monna head back in... sit on a couch awkwardly,” the ebony poodle cracks a smile, “an’ hope Max doesn’t notice me first.” With that, he turns and heads back into the living room. 

Domino lingers in the hall, leaning against the wall supporting the stairs for a moment. They don’t much want to go back in there, where all the Christmas Cheer is centered. They shut their eyes for a moment but they can still see all the red and green and tinsel and goddamn Santa Claus all over the place, bouncing around the inside of their mind. Pinching the bridge of their snout, they take a silent deep breath. _Things are **different** now. This isn’t the same as when you were a kid. Feeling this way is _**_ridiculous_**_, Domino, get a _**_goddamned_** **_grip_**_._

It does little to abate the unease, but it’s what they do. 

They brush one ear back behind their shoulder and step back into the room, steeling themself silently, and walk stiffly to one couch, sliding unnoticed through the group to settle down on it. 

“Are you just here for the food too?” A voice on their right asks, and they jolt a little, startled. Girl Stinky smirks at them, raising an eyebrow. “What? I’ve been here the **whole time**, Fido.” 

“Yer even better at bein’ unnoticed than I am.” They reply. It’s meant as a compliment but she doesn’t seem too enthused by it. “Nah. I mean yeah but also nah.” 

“Thrilling.” Something buzzes, and she pulls a phone from what they presume is a pocket, someplace, then starts typing on it with an alarming speed. “Don’t tell me you actually **like** all this sort of crap.”

“Nah.” They shift a bit, reclining more on the couch. “Flint’s m’dad, so—”

“He’s your **dad**?” She lifts her focus from her phone. “I… didn’t realize he _had_ kids.” She then adds, a bit more quietly, to herself, “Is that even **allowed**?”

They snort. “We ain’t **blood** related, dude.” 

“Oh thank God. I mean—” Girl Stinky laughs. “Can you imagine?” Domino chooses not to and when they say nothing she carries on. “Anyway. I didn’t really think he was a ‘family’ guy, honestly.”

“He wasn’t,” they mumble, furrowing their brow. To be brutally honest, they’re still not sure how all this happened. It just sort of… did. And it feels nice enough that they haven’t been able to stop questioning it. “Iunno wot happened, either.” 

“Well, whatever.” She shrugs. “He seems weirdly peppy now, so, hey. Can’t be a bad thing. Any idea when snacks are gonna happen? I’m _ starving_, and some of us still have to get home in time for a romantic outing.” 

“I'unno. I’ve not been through one’a these parties before.” They shrug. “How’s Sal?”

“You’re not asking ’cause he’s part of some **case**, are you?” She narrows her eyes at them.

They snort. “You think I’monna do recon work on a _ day off_?” 

She nods, though the suspicious look doesn’t entirely fade. “Good point, Fido.” 

That nickname is starting to grow a little bit grating, on some level. “You _ know _ my name, don’t’cha?” 

“Sure I do.” She doesn’t sound sure. They smirk. 

“Then why don’t’cha use it?”

“Must I?”

They growl, patience worn thin.

“Alright, alright.” She rolls her eyes, texting again.

A silence passes wherein the only sound is the clicking of her phone’s keys. Domino has half-melted off the couch by now, almost lying down, staring lazily off into space as the chatter of those around them blurs into an amicable white noise. “Ya never answered my question.”

“He’s fine!” Girl Stinky snaps, clearly unenthused about having been growled-at. 

“Good, good. Tell’em I said hi.” 

She pauses for a moment, brows furrowing. “Does he even _ know _ you?” 

“Nah.” They stand up. “I’ll let’cha know when snacks are gonna happen, though, if I find out.”

She seems a little bit surprised. “Thanks.” 

* * *

They’ve been here for maybe an hour and a half at most, and their tolerance is starting to wear a bit thin with all the Christmas nonsense all over the place. They stand by the door to the hall, leaning against it with their arms crossed, not talking to anyone, but watching the party unfold, as they are wont to do. Adam, as per usual, is having an easier time of it, talking pleasantly with Dr. Norrington. He’d seemed a little creeped-out by the Elder God at first, but they must have found some kind of common ground to talk about, as he’s now chattering on quite happily. Poor Papierwaite doesn’t seem to be included, though, but he also doesn’t seem to care at all. On the other end of the room, Sam and Max are pestering Girl Stinky, who’s doing her best to ignore them. They assume they’ll just continue to relax alone when Sybil steps up beside them from the hall, a glass of what looks like oddly yellow-y milk in hand—but maybe it’s just the lighting. 

“Hey, Domino!” Sybil greets them, smiling cheerfully. “How are you holding up?”

“How can ya stand it?” They ask suddenly, and at her puzzled head-tilt elaborate, “All th’… all th’ **Christmas** jus’... oozin’ from the place.” 

She smiles sympathetically. “It really isn’t so hard for me by now.” Sybil reaches over to give their arm a light squeeze in an oddly maternal sort of way, dropping her voice slightly. “I know _ none _ of this is an easy thing for you. I’m proud of you for being here, you know. You don’t have to stay if it makes you uncomfortable, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“Yeahr, but I’m Adam’s ride,” they reply, then glance sideways. “And… And it ain’t so bad. Just the … the decor’s... Too familiar.” 

“There’s less of it in the kitchen, if you need a break,” Sybil replies, and their ears perk slightly. “Get yourself something to drink, maybe, and hang out in there for a little while.” 

“Thanks, Sybil,” they reply sincerely, and she grins at them. 

“Hey, what are former therapists for?” With that, she walks past them further into the living room, and they head down the hall for the kitchen. 

As they walk, they slow down a little, looking at the walls. They’re mostly barren save for decorations, and one slightly-tarnished mirror—an antique? Where did Flint get that? They make a note to ask later, curious to know if it’s a family item of some sort—and… one picture frame. They stop in front of it. It’s small, and not an actual photo, but it’s them. A cutout from the newspaper, their first big case as a trio; they had no idea he kept the newspaper they’d been given, let alone framed it. They cautiously graze one claw along the frame as if to ensure it’s real, and oddly enough find themself having to blink away tears. It just… feels nice to look at, they suppose, and they aren’t used to that.

The brown poodle shakes themself off, then runs a paw through their hair to put it back where it goes as they step into the kitchen, where Flint is peering into the oven. He shuts it, seeming satisfied, then turns and notices them. “Hey, kiddo!” He grins. “What’re you back here for?” 

“Jus’ lookin’ for some water or somethin’,” They reply mildly. 

He gestures towards the fridge. “There’s eggnog! You ever had eggnog?” 

They pause for a moment, thinking. “...Don’t think I have, no.” 

“Well, now’s your chance to try it! Cups are in the cabinet right there.” He points at the cabinet beside the fridge, and they trudge over, opening it and selecting what they think is perhaps the worst glass, in case they accidentally break it. “How are you likin’ the party?”

“S’nice,” they mumble as they open the fridge, not keen on telling him how much they really, really don’t like being social, or any sorts of holidays, particularly not the _ family-oriented _ ones. 

“Good, good,” he answers pleasantly as they pick up the carton of eggnog, inspecting it. They’ve seen this in stores, but always passed it by, unsure of its use. They pour a bit of it out into the glass as he peers into the oven again, then put it back where it goes and meander to the opposite side of the little kitchen if only to give him some room.

They lean against the counter, by the doorway, glass in hand, and watch Flint putter around for a moment. “I didn’t know ya could cook,” they comment neutrally.

“Oh, I can’t.” He chuckles. “I bought all these nifty _ pre-made _ things, and now I just gotta not burn ’em.”

They smirk. “That makes more sense.” They hear footsteps in the hall, but pay it no mind, until— 

“Hiya, Emo!” Sam pats them on the back, almost startling them, and they turn to look at him. He’s wearing an extremely gaudy-looking Christmas sweater, adorned with an entire scene of reindeer and Santa Claus on someone’s roof. To top it all off, the snowflakes have little white LED lights, blinking in intermittent gentleness. It’s far too bright and jarring to ever be considered fashionable to any degree, but he doesn’t much seem to care. “How’s it going?”

“S’alright,” they nod at him. “Nice sweater.” 

“Thanks!” He beams proudly. “Max got it for me. He said it was the most hideous thing he’s ever seen! I have to agree.” 

They smirk. “Yeahr. But s’fun.” 

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Max suddenly butts in between the two of them, nearly pushing Domino over. “Hey kid! Where’s your brother?”

“Aw, don’t bother him today,” Domino frowns down at him, “parties’re hard ’nuff for the kid as-is.”

“I just wanna say Merry Christmas!” Max replies in clearly-false innocence. He’s wearing a Santa hat on one ear with a little bell at the end of it that sways and jingles as he moves. Domino finds themself wondering if it was someone’s keen idea of ‘belling’ him so they know where he is, like that old fable about the cat. “I won’t _ bother _ him!” 

“Well, regardless, I’on’t know where he is.” They take a sip of their eggnog apathetically, eyeing his reaction. 

Max pouts. “Darn.” 

“Maybe let the kid enjoy the day a little bit longer,” Sam puts one paw down on Max’s head. “_Then _ you can go accidentally terrorize him with your attempts to play nice.” 

For whatever reason that seems to brighten the little lagomorph right up. “Okay!” He then turns his attention to Domino. “Why are _ you _ here, anyway? I thought you _ hated _ everything social!”

“I don’t.” They correct him mildly. “Just… I…y’know, _ prefer _ t’be alone.” 

“No _ wonder _ Flint adopted you,” Sam teases lightly, nudging them playfully, “you two are cut from the same cloth!” 

Something about that lifts their mood and they manage a slight smile. They open their mouth to reply again when someone calls their name from the living room; puzzled and intrigued, they lift one ear, then walk off toward the sound of the voice without so much as a “hang on” to the duo.

The Freelance Police cheerfully watch them go. “Look at that, you made ’em smile!” Max punches his partner in the gut lightly and Sam guffaws, thoroughly amused. 

“Guess not even someone as staunchly miserable as them is exempt from the cheer of Flint’s holiday parties.” The older dog observes with a smile of his own.

* * *

The evening has wound down. Sybil left quite some time ago, having a young child to go tend to, and Girl Stinky pretty much bailed after she’d had enough food and seen some drama. Domino most definitely doesn’t fault her for that. Were it any other situation they’d have likely joined her. The only ones left still around are Sam, Max, and Bosco, but Bosco has been off hiding somewhere for quite a while, so it feels more like Sam and Max are the last stragglers. Alongside Domino and Adam, of course.

Domino is settled in on the couch, watching Adam do his best not to be outwardly frightened of Max, who’s finally managed to corner him and chatter at him. Similarly, Sam is watching the conversation from a different couch, as if keeping tabs on his little buddy to make sure the lagomorph doesn’t cross a line or something. 

“...And it turned out, Santa _ wasn’t _ possessed! Just really, _ really _ paranoid about demons!” Max chirps. “Wanna know what we did **then**?!”

“...Sure?” Adam offers a wobbly polite smile. 

The lagomorph somehow manages to grin a little wider, and throws his arms out at his sides, excited. “We summoned a _ demon_! Kinda by accident. Sam didn’t know what he was doing.”

“_You _ didn’t know what you were doing _ either_, bullethead.”

Max whirls around to look at his partner. “I **never** do, Sam! That’s **your** job!” Adam takes advantage of the momentary distraction to slip away, immediately hiding by Domino on the couch. They pat his arm gently in a lame reassurance, and he sighs quietly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. By the time Max realizes where Adam has gone, the black poodle is pointedly not looking at him, while Domino fixes him with the thousand-yard stare. “Why do you always look dead?” Max blurts.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Max, that’s mean.”

“Well, they _ do_!” He protests. 

They roll their eyes as well, unwilling to dignify him with a response, and yawn instead. It’s not very late in the evening, but talking to people is exhausting for them. Or, well, politely talking to people they only vaguely know, in a non-interrogation setting, is tiring. They’re looking forward to getting home to sleep and put a little distance between themself and socializing. 

Max seems to take their yawn for an answer, and springs up onto the couch with Sam, right into the older dog’s lap despite there being plenty of the rest of the couch to sit on. The hound wheezes but doesn’t actually complain when Max settles down like an oversized cat. In fact he loops an arm over Max, but that may be more to stop him from deciding to come bother Adam again. 

“So,” Sam starts, and Domino lifts an ear; he seems to be addressing them. “How’s detective work treating you? Your brother told us all the _ cool _ stuff earlier.” 

“Sam always wants to know the _ boring _ stuff.” Max quips.

“Adam prolly tolja everythin’,” they reply, scratching their chin. “He’s the better storyteller, anyhow.” 

The older dog seems almost disappointed by that, but doesn’t press them much further than, “Well, surely you have a few stories from **before** the kid was on the team, right?” 

They hesitate. Sure, they do, but their memory has always been patchy at best—and they’re not the greatest at trying to jog their own memory. “...Nothin’ I or Flint haven’t already tolja. Wot about you? Y’all surely got some tales, right?”

“Too many!” Max beams. “Weren’t you paying attention five minutes ago?!”

“No.” They answer flatly, sticking a claw between their teeth. Feels like something’s stuck there. Maybe a bit of pretzel from earlier. They’re hoping Max doesn’t launch off into his longwinded, heavily-embellished stories again, but the deep inhale tells them they won’t be spared. Ah, well. They’ll take this bullet for their brother. 

Luckily they’re spared by their most gracious host Flint entering the room with a loud, “Howdy, fellas! How're you doin’?”

“Flint!” Max springs to his feet, turning around and leaning on Sam’s shoulder to look at Flint in the doorway. He folds his arms under his chin, entire body pressed to Sam’s torso as he grins at the detective. “We’re doing great!”

“Glad to hear it, furry pals.” He walks around that couch and the two Freelance Police watch him with cheerful grins as he heads for the same one his kids are sitting on. Domino scoots to one side, shoving Adam to make room for their dad; the younger poodle barks out a quiet protest but they just shove his hat over his eyes and he hushes. Flint settles in on the couch beside them, “Hey, you two,” he greets them warmly, “enjoy the party?”

“Yeah!” Adam replies enthusiastically, knocking his hat back into place, as Domino grunts in a similar affirmation, leaning back into the couch. 

He grins back at the two of them. “Listen, I know you two don’t really celebrate, and that’s alright, but I wanted to get you something, anyway.” He produces two boxes from seemingly nowhere, handing one to each of them, having to push a bit more at Domino for them to actually take theirs. “The holiday is a good excuse, at least.” 

Domino’s mouth goes dry and they glance over at their brother to see their astonishment mirrored in his eyes. “Y… Ya didn't hav'ta …” They sputter, lost for words. 

“Aw, c’mon, just open it, sport!” Flint beams at them. 

“Yeah!” Max springs up and down on the other couch, only stopped when Sam grabs him out of the air so he doesn’t break Flint’s couch. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to just immediately _ rip _ a gift open?”

Domino looks down at the box. They can’t actually remember the last time they got a present all wrapped-up. Maybe never, they realize. It feels… monumental. They can tell by the way Adam is only fiddling with the paper that he’s similarly uncertain. 

They gingerly hook one claw into the corner of it and find themself, weirdly, trying to tear it as quietly as possible. If Flint notices, he says nothing, and Adam follows their lead, carefully sliding a claw along the tape to cut it. His claws are a little more blunt by virtue of his taking care of them, but he gets his open first, extracting a box from the wrapping and giving it a puzzled look before opening it and gasping audibly. Within was a mass of light-blue fabric, which he delicately picks up with shaky hands.

Domino has managed to get theirs open as well, and they sit frozen for a moment, eyes wide, peering down into their own box’s contents. 

It’s a coat. 

A winter coat of an extremely deep olive colour, almost black but with just enough green to seem almost darker. The hood is lined with fluffy off-white faux fur, and the material feels incredibly thick and warm. That sort of water-wicking fabric that swishes when you run a hand across it. They find themself just staring at it, absolutely floored and speechless. 

“I do hope they fit,” Flint remarks. “I just kinda eyeballed it.” 

Neither of them can respond. Adam keeps glancing between Domino and his own coat, as if not entirely sure this is really happening. He holds it up, turning it over, and finds the hood on the back of it, lined with fluffy almost-black faux fur that nearly matches his own. 

“Do ya like ’em?” Flint asks almost hesitantly, uncertain how to read their reactions.

Ever the more mature of the two, Domino finds their voice first. “Yeahr,” they manage past the lump in their throat. “I… Th—_ Thank you_.”

“Thank you,” Adam echoes, sounding shell-shocked.

Flint pats Domino on the back as they lift one paw to their face, attempting to wipe away the brewing tears without calling attention to them. “Aw, c’mere, you two,” Flint beams, pulling the two into a hug. For once Domino doesn’t care about the audience and just buries their nose in his shoulder, hugging him back wholeheartedly. 

“Gee, what a heartwarming display,” Sam wipes a tear of his own off his face with one finger. 

Max, by contrast, doesn’t seem too impressed. “It’s just a coat. Why are they so worked up?”

“I’ll explain when we get home.” Sam replies in an attempt to make his partner hush already. 

“Well!” Flint pats them both one the back one last time, and they pull away. “Now that you’ve both got winter coats… How do you feel about a snowball fight?”

Adam’s eyes light up. “Oh, man, really?!” His tail thumps against the couch. 

“Can we tag along?” Max blurts, leaning forward with a huge grin. 

“I don’t see why not.” Flint shrugs, getting up. “I’ll get my coat, and we’ll all head to the park.”

Domino sniffles for a moment, shaking their head such that their ears flop around with a funny flapping sound. “Sure,” they manage once they’ve recovered. “That’d be real nice…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then they all went and had just the most epic snowball fight that i will maybe write someday later  
or draw, or somethin'.  
happy holidaysssssssss


	6. Flintnapped!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint's gone missing, and Domino has to find him.  
(Happens well before the last one; Adam isn't here yet).  
also, featuring Joey!! who has been mentioned in the past. she's Domino's adopted sister :] found-family shit, yakno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to canadaisnolonger@tumblr for the name cause the rough draft name was just "Flint is Missing" but this one's snazzier, thänk you sïblïng  
also, warning for some fictional violence esp towards the end ! nobody dies a gory death or anythin but it's Action Packed Shenanigans so ykno  
and a special thank ya to the beta readers !! this is the first time i ever had a piece be beta-read and i appreciate the help v v much :]

“...and jus’ call me back whenever. Bye.”

The phone drops to the receiver again, but the paw doesn’t leave it just yet. Its owner frowns, staring down, mindlessly drawing one claw along the plasticy edge of it before slowly dragging off, leaving a light score along the plain black plastic. If you look close, you’ll see many just like it. 

It’s not like him to not check up for longer than half a day. Usually he calls at least once every few hours, with some kind of update. Granted, he’d said they could take the day after finishing their last case off, but that day was yesterday. And they’d assumed he’d be waking them up with a phone call about some fun activity going on that day anyhow. As it stands, they hadn’t woken ’til after three in the afternoon; they’d frantically checked the answering machine, asking Joey if anyone called, but nope. Nothing. And now he wasn’t answering the office phone _ or _ his personal phone.

They didn’t like worrying. It wasn’t like them. Hell, ’til recently, they didn’t even _ have _ people to worry about. Upsettingly foreign a feeling, worry is.

“Still no answer?” Joey asks mildly from her spot on the couch.

They sigh, letting their paw drop to their side. “_Nothin’_. It jus’ ain’t _ like _ him.” Domino runs a paw through their hair, then heads for the door, snagging a greyish-black hoodie from the back of the couch as they pass it. 

Joey gives them a curious look, rifling through her bag of Doritos. “Where are you—?”

“Goin’ to the office t’go look fer ’im.” They nod to her, shrugging on the jacket and popping open the apartment front door. “If I ain’t call by six, get worried.”

“Got it.” Their sister nods as they slip out the door, shutting it behind them. 

* * *

“Flint?” They call through the shut door. The office is dark, but then again, it always is. They have a key but usually don’t have to use it; he’s always there to open the door. But they can just _ feel _ a dark, ominous emptiness in the room. They unlock the door and swing it open, one paw on a knife tucked into their belt in case something truly has gone awry, but the room is empty. Their eyes scan left and right, but they see nothing other than the usual debris. 

They step inside, letting the door swing shut quietly behind them. Something prompts them not to turn on the light, and they warily scan the room, tiptoeing for the desk. They pause in front of it.

It’s so unusually silent here with Sam and Max absent. They were off on another case, presumably, so there was no inane chatter, gunshots, or screaming. The folks upstairs had gone out, as well, and the other spaces were mostly empty all the time… 

Domino peers down at the desk to find a folded piece of paper. Strange, Flint usually took care of his paperwork quite well, and they don’t recall this being there earlier. They pluck it from the desk, running their claw along the edge of it, then unfolding it. It’s a note, handwritten, on the usual copy paper they have in the office. Flint’s handwriting, but rushed. Untidy. Well, moreso than usual. He was always scribbling but they were familiar with his usual handwriting and this wasn’t it. This was shaping up to be quite bad.

“Domino,” the note began, “I have to leave the city on account of some unexpected business—A solo case. Don’t fret. —Flint.”

They feel nauseated, and fold the note back the way it was as best they can with shaking paws. 

“Shit.”

A long while ago the duo had discussed a code of sorts. Bad things happening to them was just a part of the job, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t plan ahead for it. _ Don’t worry _ meant it was all alright; _ Don’t fret _ meant something bad was afoot. 

They kneel down, rifling through the drawers before withdrawing this odd little thing Flint owned—a reel of… notecards, they suppose, with contact information and names on each one. They don’t know the name of the thing, but that doesn’t matter. They flip through it, searching for one number in specific—the number of the only people who could really help them out. Amusingly it’s the least-worn notecard but they hardly have any time to reflect on that, dialing the number on the card with the old rotary phone.

It rings once, twice, three times, and they fear no one will pick up until they hear a sunny, familiar, “Hell-lo!”

“I need yer help.” They say immediately.

Several blocks away, a rabbit and a dog exchange a glance over their car phone, each looking equally surprised. 

“_Domino_?” Sam blinks at the phone in slight disbelief. The laconic dog was never one to reach out to anyone for _ help_, let alone them. The Freelance Police and the Not-A-Pizza-Delivery-Dog-Anymore are acquaintances at best, really. This sort of abrupt call can’t possibly spell good news.

“Flint’s missin’. He’s—I haven’t heard from him in _ two days _ an’ I jus’ now thought to check the office _ and_,” they’re blathering and they know it, clenching and unclenching their one free paw, pacing in a tight little line in front of the desk.

“Whoa, hey, slow down, Emo!” Max admonishes, sitting down hard in his seat. 

Sam shoots Max a subtle glare, one he doesn’t pick up on, then says a more gentle tone, “Hang on a minute, Domino…”

“Right. Yeahr. Sorry.” They huff out a sigh, stopping in their tracks with their palm pressed to their forehead. They suck in a deep breath. No time to panic. Flint needs them—needs them to be level-headed. There’ll be time for feelings later. The tremor fades and their voice is its usual stiff tone when they continue, “I jus’ found out.” 

Sam and Max exchange an amused glance, Sam remembering what it felt like to be an emotionally-volatile young adult and Max just bemused by suffering in general. “Take it from the top, kiddo.” Sam prods.

“Flint hasn’t called in like two days now. I came to the office and there was a note sayin’ he was away, but I know he didn’t write it of his own volition. I’ve no leads yet. I’monna need help.” They explain evenly, biting their knuckle to stop another bout of tremors. The taste of blood and subtle sting grounds them. 

“How do you _ know _ he didn’t write it?” Max raises an eyebrow at his phone. 

“Code phrase.” They reply. 

Sam nods. “Good thinking.”

“Is it?” Max peers up at him. “How come we don’t have one?”

“We have plenty.” Sam quips, then goes on, “When it comes to a parent-child bond, it’s important to set up subtle code phrases so each can clearly communicate with the other without letting outsiders know. That way if the child is in a situation they don’t want to be in, they can communicate as such to their parent without alerting those around them, to avoid further da—”

Domino brings the headset back up to their ear. “Are ya fucken done yet, Encyclopedia Britannica?”

“Oh, sorry.” Sam looks back down. “We’ll help you out, Domino.”

“Thanks. I owe ya one.”

“Ooh, don’t say that.” Sam hangs up before Max can start making demands.

* * *

They’d already called Joey to let her know they’d be away this evening, and likely several beyond it, should things truly be dire. Pacing in tight circles, they think carefully. Who would the duo have pissed off lately? Or could this be an old villain from Flint’s past, one who didn’t even know about them? They’d have to ask Sam and Max about that. What if it was someone new? That would be difficult. They’ll have to make the rounds later on this evening. Someone in the underworld is bound to know something, but they can’t risk exposure, given they’ve asked Sam and Max for help… might be difficult to get away from them, too. Maybe that was a bad idea. They grimace, chomping down on their tongue, and the sharp pain coupled with the taste of blood jolts them a little more awake. _ Focus, Domino, focus! _ ** _Who_ ** _ could have taken Flint? _

Their last case wrapped up nice and neat. Not the sort of thing a villain can rise from the ashes of. That’s unlikely. There’ve been a few cases in the past where kidnapping was the M.O., but usually of children, or young adults, or the elderly. Flint doesn’t count as elderly quite yet, and he for sure acts far younger than his age, but not younger than a particularly spry middle-aged man. Not the proper age range. Really it would’ve been more likely for _ them _ to get kidnapped. Dognapped. _ Whichever_. 

A subtle rap sounds at the door, and they stiffen, whirling to look. They were hopeful of Flint’s silhouette even though they knew he wouldn’t knock on his own damn office door, but at least it’s Sam’s silhouette they see. They yank open the door to see the dogtective and his rabbity cohort standing there, peering at them. “Good timin’,” they mumble.

“You look frazzled!” Max shoves past them and hops on the couch. “And that’s saying something. I don’t usually use words like _ ‘frazzled_.’”

“I know.” they answer flatly, turning to him.

Sam steps in behind his partner, shutting the door to Flint’s office, and looks around, then at Domino. “He’s really **gone**?” He asks. They restrain an irritated growl, and he leans back slightly, elaborating, “Easy, kid… He’s just kinda prone to disappearing, is all. He drops off the grid for his cases all the time.” 

The poodle steps over to the desk, picking up the note again and handing it to him. “If it were a case, he woulda called me,” they reply simply, even though they’re not so sure about that now.

Sam examines the note carefully. Max springs off the couch, scaling the dog, to stare at it too, and for once his permanent smile wobbles, then falls entirely. “Oh, my God, he’s really gone.”

“Don’t panic, Max.” Sam lifts a hand to press Max’s head into his shoulder. 

“Y’all didn’t believe me?” They huff, crossing their arms as Max does his best to not panic, sliding down off Sam.

“In our defense, it’s a _ little _ unbelievable,” he hands the note back to them, and they tuck it away in their inventory, looking down. He’s right, it is. Which makes it even worse, somehow. Sam feels an oddly parental impulse to gently pat them on the shoulder, so he does, and they turn quickly to look at him. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’s out there somewhere.” 

“Yeah!” Max pipes up, stepping in front of the two dogs with his signature cheshire grin. “I’m pretty sure it’s next-to-impossible to kill him. He’s _ Flint Paper_, after all!” 

The name is said with such genuine admiration that Domino has no choice but to keep their trap shut and nod, jamming their paws in their jacket pockets. They can’t help but fret, though, that maybe he’s just… up and left. It’s a _ horrible _ thought to have, _ especially _ about him—but in their life that’s just been what fathers and father-figures do. Uncharitable though the assumption may be, they can’t silence that sliver of doubt. That being said, at least it’s far outweighed by the worry he might be in grave danger.

“If anyone can find him, it’s us,” Sam declares proudly, bringing them back to reality again. His chest is puffed out and he stands up tall as he can, grinning down at them, continuing, “After all, he taught _ us _ first! We learned almost half our tricks from the best Private Dick around!” 

“So, where do we start?” They prompt.

The older dog blinks at them in surprise, clearly not expecting them to hit the ground running with questions. “W-Well…” He deflates a little bit, thinking.

“Got any leads? Any idea who th’hell woulda done this?” They press.

“Jeez, Emo, give us a minute to think!” Max comes to his partner’s rescue. 

Domino is well aware _ none _ of them have any leads. They can’t help but think maybe they’d be better off looking alone. Calling these two was a stupid panicky decision they wouldn’t have otherwise made… What happened to their self-sufficiency? With the Freelance Police hanging around, they can’t exploit their mostly-hidden gang ties, or the two might realize who they are—were. Who they _ were_. They have to keep reminding themself they’re supposed to be different now, even though nothing in them feels different. 

“You alright?” Sam prompts. They suppose their little internal struggle must be writ large across their eyes, and immediately shake themself off, adopting their typical neutral mask with some effort. 

“I’m _ fine_,” they snap, not keen on showing any sort of weakness to these two. “I jus’ need y’all to tell me who-all would wanna kidnap Flint.” 

“Lots of people.” Sam tucks his paws into his pockets. “He’s made plenty of enemies, for sure, but so have we… and usually _ his _ enemies are even **less** alive than ours.”

“How many’re still _ kickin’_, then?” They press. “We oughta put together some kinda list… Start checkin’ up on—”

“You’ll be here for _ years _ doing that,” Max swipes a paw through the air flippantly. 

They grind their teeth for a moment, frustrated. 

“To be fair, we usually hear about his cases secondhand… we’re not typically too involved in his work.” Sam muses. “You probably know more about his life, in recent events, than we do.” 

“We do have years of _ stalking _ him, though!” Max chirps.

Sam turns to look at him, frowning a little. “No, _ you _ do. _ I _ had nothing to do with any of that…” 

Domino tunes them out as the Freelance Police start talking amongst themselves, choosing instead to mentally run-through the situation, stepping away from the chattering. He hadn’t called even shortly after they finished that last case, so this must have happened almost immediately after the two parted ways. There was no struggle evident—Domino is familiar with the usual pattern of chaos in the office, and it was undisturbed when they arrived. That meant he _knew_ these people, perhaps, _or_ perhaps they had something on him… Either way, it was some sort of situation where he wouldn’t want to fight back, but would—could!—leave a note. Specifically a note with their _something’s_ _wrong_ code phrase, so he knew this was going to go south… but he didn’t fight back. Why? Why wouldn’t he? He was no stranger to a fight. Maybe he’d _wanted_ to leave…? But then why write the note?

They barely even realized they’d paced their way over to the corkboard, nor did they know they’d been mumbling aloud ’til they noticed how oddly quiet it was behind them. They stiffen, then turn to see the Freelance Police both grinning at them. “What?”

“You sound just like him!” Max chirps, thoroughly amused. 

“Don’t let us bother you,” Sam swats his partner upside the head. “Sounded like good detective work.” 

They huff, and turn back away, shaking themself off to think again. This is going to take a while, and every second could be precious time—they can’t let themself get distracted.

* * *

As it turned out, there were really no leads to be had. None the trio could dig up by working together, anyways. After a really quite harrowing tour of a few prisons to question people Flint had previously locked-up, they’d come up empty-handed, but with the knowledge that those they’d questioned were pretty enthused about the idea of Flint not being a pain for them anymore. Additionally, Domino learned prison guards don’t really like it when you snarl at inmates, let alone at them.

The sun has fallen, so the Freelance Police have decided to turn in for the night, heading back to their home—something Domino didn’t actually know they had—and, of course, with the belief that Domino is aiming to do the same in their minds. The poodle waves them good-bye, then, once they’ve left, heads back into the office. For them, the real work has just begun, but they’re not going out under-equipped. They open the door, and scan their surroundings, yanking a knife out of a half-broken bookshelf and lifting their shirt up a little to tuck it into its place on their knife-belt before shrugging off their hoodie and tossing it onto the empty office chair. They kneel down in front of the desk, popping open one of the deeper drawers, and withdraw a pistol and belt-holster. They’re not usually too fond of guns, but this is, in their opinion, an emergency situation; standing once more, they kick the drawer closed, lifting their shirt again and holding it awkwardly in their teeth as they fasten the holster over their belt. Once it’s all settled, they open their mouth and let the shirt fall, glancing at the window for a moment. The blinds are drawn as they usually are, letting in limited horizontal bars of light, and they stare down at the now-empty desk. “I swear I’ll find ya, Flint. And pummel the _ snot _ outta whoever th’hell thought they could do this.” 

With that, they leave the office, slamming the door behind them. 

The hunt has begun.

* * *

The sky is clear and they’re grateful for the moonlight, though they know they can see in the darkness better than the average human. The streets are mostly empty in this particular spot of town—whether that be due to its proximity to Sam and Max or due to the rampant crime is anyone’s guess—and they find themself occasionally wishing there were a crowd to disappear into. It feels too easy to be followed, here. They keep one ear pricked, turned a little backwards, just in case, as they march on to their destination. A pity the buses won’t run through these parts, after the bus drivers protested about too many of them being murdered around here. It makes sense, and of course Domino is on their side in the end, but they’re in a bit of a selfish mood, and they stepped on some gum five blocks back that’s embedded itself in one of the only patches of fur on the bottom of their foot. They could’ve avoided that were there a bus running through to Hell’s Pantry, but there’s little to be done for it now. 

A swift breeze rushes through for a moment, forcing them back into the present, and they pause briefly, glancing about to collect their bearings again. Not too far off, now. If they’re right, the Arby’s up ahead is the typical meeting-spot for the first gang on their list, and it’s early enough they might catch only the earlybirds, making interrogation easier. It’s no fun to have to pummel five-or-so people just to ask one or two a barrage of questions. 

The crosswalk says they shouldn’t attempt to cross, but this part of town is always half-dead after dark. They’ve seen two cars so far, cars they pointedly do _ not _ look at directly, but watch in their periphery, one paw hovering casually by the pistol in its holster. They pass without incident, but any sort of traffic in this area is suspicious as all get-out, including them; the Arby’s looks like it might be open, but there’s no way in hell they’d ever go in even if it was. They loop around back, padding as quietly as they can, not letting their claws scrape on the concrete. There, behind the Dumpster, stands one guy in a hoodie looking like he’s deliberately trying to be nonchalant, but failing miserably at it. They step carefully around the Dumpster, and his head whips around, looking like he clearly expected someone else. 

“’Ello.” They step toward him.

“Do I _ know _ you?” He asks warily, leaning away from them.

“Prolly not.” They pace a bit sideways to stand in front of him, so his back is to the wall of the Arby’s. “I’ve just a couple _ questions _ t’ask—” He makes like he’s going to book it, but they pounce, slamming him to the wall— “Ey, now! I ain’t even say wot they were!”

“We ain’t goin’ to jail—” he starts.

“Do I look like a pig to you?” They snap, and he suddenly looks confused. “I’m ’ere for _ m’self_. I’on’t even give a damn who ya are or wot ya’ve done. I jus’ think ya might know somethin’-or-other _ I _ wanna know, too.” 

“Al...right…” He relents, still looking thoroughly confused. “Whaddaya wanna know?” 

“You seen Flint Paper around?” They ask casually.

He blinks wide brown eyes at them. If he wasn’t completely baffled before, he for sure is now. “_ Flint Paper _?” He echoes. “Why the hell would you wanna—”

“**I’m** the one askin’ the questions ’ere!” They bark, and he flinches despite having a good three inches of height on them. 

“Fine! _ Jesus_. I dunno, he hasn’t been up here in a _ while _ I guess. He hasn’t bothered us, at least.” He shrugs, then gives them a strange look. “It’s usually _ him _ huntin’ _ us _ down, not _ us _ huntin’ _ him _ down.” 

“Yeah?” They press, stepping a bit closer. “Any _ role-reversals _ lately?”

He narrows his eyes and slides one hand into his hoodie pocket, in a move he likely thinks is stealthy, given Domino’s eyes are still locked to his. “I don’t know what you’re even tryin’ to **accuse** me of, but I _ don’t—_” 

“_ Listen _ to me,” they growl, slamming the man into the brick wall once more with one pawful of his jacket and t-shirt. Baring their teeth, they get uncomfortably close, close enough he can see spit on their sharp canines. “Either ya tell me wot I wanna know, or ya make peace wi’h wotever deity ya believe in, pal.” 

He gulps, shivering, knowing they’re deadly serious. A gun barrel presses itself to the side of their head, though, and they shoot a sideways glance to it, letting out a low, threatening dog growl of frustration. “Let him go.” 

“At this range yer likely t’get him caught in the crossfire.” They point out, only turning their head slightly to address the other person.

The gun clicks. “No, I’m not.” Domino lets go, take a half-pace back, lifting their paws, and their eyes flit between the two humans. “You’re better off looking elsewhere, Attack Dog.”

They growl again and can’t help a flicker of satisfaction when both flinch. “I’ll be back.” They snarl, creeping backwards, not taking their eyes off the two until they’re around the corner. That was a bust. But there’s others they can ask, at least. They can head up to Left Side (though god forbid this go much further north…), or over to Some Square Part for more information.

They narrow their eyes, looking up. The night’s still pretty young, and they know of a certain rat who lives a little more eastward that might be of some use to them right now. They’re only tangentially familiar with him, really, but they’ve spoken twice before. 

Third time’s the charm, as they say.

* * *

It’s fairly easy to catch a late-night bus elsewhere once you’re far enough out of the heart of Hell’s Pantry. The sleepy little village-like suburban coast a little south of it has some decent bus lines, albeit expensive. Then again, price doesn’t matter when you’re just digging your claws into the metal of the bus’s rear end and praying to whatever deity you believe in (and a few you don’t) that you don’t get knocked off by a particularly bad pothole, or some bad luck. They’ve done this enough they’re quite seasoned at it, but even a veteran can make a mistake—though, there isn’t any other traffic to knock into or be run over by, were they to fall off, so that’s something. 

They spring off the back of the bus when it stops at the bus-stop along one of the more minor rivers, shaking themself off and feeling quite grateful they only smell a little bit like bus exhaust. Either that, or they’re already getting used to the scent; regardless, they trot to their destination on legs that gradually grow more steady. Thankfully this spot of town has fewer potholes on average. 

The brown poodle stalks the streets, one paw tucked under their shirt, claw tracing the hilt of their favourite blade as they look back and forth in a measured manner. They’ll catch sight of him in some fashion, they’re sure. He’s always lurking around here, but if he’s smart, he’ll be hiding tonight—if he knows anything, that is. 

A flash of movement. Their eyes snap to the right to see a rat-tail disappearing down an alley. He’d seen them and booked it, not realizing his whiplike pink tail was a bright enough colour to catch their attention in such a quick move. Jogging quietly, they catch up to it, and step into the alleyway to see Frankie attempting a casual walk away from the entrance to the alley; it could have worked, maybe, if he didn't freeze the moment their shadow fell over him.

He turns around slowly as they step up to him. “’Ello, Frankie,” they grin toothily down at the rat, who stares up at them in fright.

“Eyyy, Attack Dog!” He smiles nervously back. “How’s it goin’, buddy?”

“Not too great, Frankie,” they kneel down to loom over him, pointing their knife at his little rat face.

“’Ey, ’ey, what’s all that—” The small brown rat starts to say, but they talk over him.

“And I needta know if ya can help m’day go a li’l _ better_, catch m’drift?” They growl. The rat shuts up for a moment, so they continue, “Ya seen Flint around lately?”

“_Flint_? Flint _ Paper_?” When they nod, he thinks a moment. “Uhh, yeah, I seen him just two days ago, why?”

“Where was he?” They avoid his question. 

“Drove past in a car, real shitty li’l _ mom-car _ type’a deal, with some people I ain’t reco’nize. He was in the backseat, and lookin’ around like he wanted ta _ get out _…Real weird stuff.” Frankie tilts his head to one side, eyeing the knife warily, but finds it in himself to be so bold as to ask, “Why the hell ya wanna know about Flint Paper?”

“Ain’t no business a yers.” They snap, baring their teeth, and he backs up a pace or two.

“Jeez, **alright**, pooch,” he cringes away from them, “no need fer the _ hostility_! We’re pals, ain’t we?”

“Sure.” They reply flatly. “Ya recognize _ anybody else _ in th’car? ** _ Anyone at all_**?”

“I already tol’ja, nah,” he furrows his brow at them. “Looked like they wasn’t from ’round this area of town, ya’know?” 

Domino restrains the impulse to huff. Stupid to ask a rat who can’t go much further than ten-or-so blocks in one day if he recognizes anyone, but it was worth a shot they guess. “Where were they headed? And where’d they come from?”

“They was headin’ due east, but it waddn’t like I was trackin’ em or nothin’. Looked t’be comin’ from northwards, they turned onta the street from a side-alley.” He scratches his chin. “You tryna take Flint out all by yer lonesome?”

“Ain’t no biz’ness a yers!” They bark angrily, and he skitters back further away from them.

“Sorry, sorry! Jeez… Lighten up, will ya?” 

They slam a paw down on the ground right next to him, and he squeaks. Leaning down so their muzzle is directly in front of them, they snarl, “Ya’know I ain’t above usin’ ya as a **chew-toy** if ya _ piss me off_, Frankie.” 

“Yeah, I know,” he gulps. “Sorry, Attack Dog. Really. I’m real, real,” he stares at their sharp teeth and shudders, “_real _ sorry.”

They pull back again, slowly. “That _ all _ ya know?”

“Yeah. Again, I ain’t tail ’em or nothin’. Wish I could tell ya more, but that’s all I gotta offer.” He shrugs.

They sigh. It’ll have to do. “Thanks, pal.” They stand up. “Tell ev’rybody else in Rat Hole I said hi.” 

“Can-do. Hope ya find whatever it is yer lookin’ for.” He waves as they stalk off.

_ So, someone _ ** _did_ ** _ nab him, _ they muse to themself, tucking the knife away again. _ But who? And why? And where-to? And why in some _ ** _ soccer mom’s_ ** _ car? _ The where-to is the most important part, at present, though if they can find out the other two, they’ll be better-prepared. And if Frankie didn’t recognize the other folks in the car, that crosses out a decent-sized area they know he frequents, so clearly these people originate from somewhere other than this particular area. That puts the Latin Quarter and Museum District (or at least chunks of them) off their radar, which is helpful. Maybe the Brooklyn Wastes? It’s a place they rarely went, even in early days, and one they know Frankie tends to avoid. But it’s also pretty far out there. That being said, they’ve already gone over the bridge, so they might as well try while they’re here.

* * *

It only takes one well-placed kick to open the door, Bowie knife clenched in one paw, and all sound inside stops. Three pairs of eyes turn to them frantically, and one man scrambles to his feet with an “oh, shit,” as they stand in the doorway.

“Who knows where Flint Paper is?” They snap bluntly, readjusting their grip. 

Each of those inside shares a glance, two puzzled, one apprehensive. Domino’s eyes latch on to the apprehensive one as they step inside, deliberately dragging their claws along the floor to scrape ominously. It evokes the desired shiver of dread as they continue, “Yer better off tellin’ me if ya know anythin’.” 

“We don’t—” one starts, but the apprehensive-looking one ruins it by blurting, “We had _ nothin’ _ to do with that, man!”

They advance faster, locked onto the one who spoke up. His cowardly friends back away and he seems to curl in on himself, trembling. “Tell me who _ does_, then.” They growl.

“I—If I tell you you gotta protect me!” He splutters. 

“Wotever,” they wave the knife, “fucken _ tell _ me.” 

He looks to the other two with him, but Domino steps between him and them, blocking his line of sight and lifting the knife. Snitches get stitches in his line of work, of course, and truth be told they couldn’t give less of a shit about his well-being after he squeals, but they also know they need to at least pretend they’ll keep him safe to get what they want out of him. He locks eyes with them and immediately breaks down. “It, it was—They, uh, there was this one guy at the bar _ braggin’ _ about how the Garment Gang had finally got Flint Paper, somehow, I, I dunno how, I think he was lyin’ but he said they just dragged him to their car and, and gave him off to s-some client!”

“**Client**? _ Wot _ client?” They press the tip of the knife to his chin. Hiring a gang is… a strange step to take, though they know near everyone in the Soiled Garment District is a coward more keen on money than danger. Perfect for hired gruntwork, so long as the job isn’t too hazardous.

“I dunno! I dunno, I dunno, he—He wouldn’t say! Just, a _ client_!” He splutters, panicking.

They take a half-pace back, letting the knife fall to a less threatening pose. “Thanks.” They say flatly, turning to the other two. “Emdy hurts 'im, I’ll tear out their throats wi’h m’bare _ teeth _. Understood?”

They nod in tandem, not at all doubting the truth of that statement. Knowing better than to turn their back on the three, Domino paces backward slowly to the door, paw hovering around the gun holster, then slips backward out the warehouse door and quickly books it down the nearest alley, lest anyone get the bright idea to lean out the door with a pistol. They duck behind a Dumpster, pausing to gather their thoughts. The pieces are finally coming together, and lucky for them, the Garment Gang are practically pushovers. Though they are a little miffed at how much they’ve had to walk on this stupid wild-goose chase. 

This time, they’ll actually pay the bus fare.

* * *

They’ve never really been fond of ports. Partly given their first step into America was off a boat, with their mother already snarling obscenities at them for being seasick, and partly due to all the damn people milling about all the time. A port is never truly quiet. At least that gives them a good spot to look, though; the quietest area is where their target will be hiding. 

By this point in their life they’re pretty good at being ignored, despite being a dog and all that. They slide by unnoticed in the hustle-and-bustle of port activity, spotting one warehouse with the door left ajar and making a roundabout path to it. Checking briefly to ensure they’re continuing to not be noticed, they slide in the door, only nudging it open a little more to fit inside. Ahead of them they can see a lot of packaging strewn around haphazardly, as if this place had once held a packing facility that’s since been entirely overturned. They tiptoe in further. Beyond a shelving unit and between the junk adorning it they can see a small gathering of humans, lounging around, talking in low voices that echo around and mix together into incoherency. Careful to keep their claws from scraping the concrete, they creep closer, reaching under their shirt for the switchblade and palming it. 

“...Told him to get lost, after that. Can ya believe?” Guffaws abound, and between them the person continues, “The **nerve** of him.”

“_Did _ he get lost?” A new voice pipes up. 

“He’d be **dead** if he didn’t,” yet another one quips. Domino rolls their eyes. _ Just gossip, nothin’ worthwhile. _ They slink around the shelving unit, peering at the congregation.

Most of the humans are standing, two are sitting; there looks to be eight in total. Not odds they’re too fond of, but they could probably make it work if they’re clever and don’t get hurt. They put on their bravest face, teeth bared, hackles raised, and make their move.

The tallest human catches sight of them first as they step towards the group. “And who the hell are you?” He straightens up to his full height, more than half a foot above them, arms crossed over his chest. The others all whirl around to face them, startled, as they stalk right up to the edge of the group; he takes a couple paces forward to stand in front of them. 

They snarl up at him. “Call me Attack Dog. East Point Hounds.”

His brow furrows for a minute as he thinks, trying to recall. “Awful long way away from Georgia, aren’t ya?”

“Didn’t they get busted?” A different human pipes up, then flinches back when Domino rounds on them. 

“_I _ didn’t.” They bare their canines at them and the tall an eyes them a little warily now. “You’ll be goin’ down too if ya don’t tell me wot ya know about the disappearance of Flint Paper.”

“And what’s in it for—” He starts but they snap one paw forward, switchblade inches from his nose; he yelps, flinching back, and nicking his nose on the tip of the blade.

“Ya keep yer pretty, pretty faces.” They sneer at him.

He wipes the bead of blood off with his thumb, but doesn’t seem very convinced. The crowd is entirely unfriendly now, withdrawing their various preferred weapons. “Bad move, puppydog,” He sneers, glowering at them. Domino clenches their jaw, paw hovering over their holster. “You’re outnumbered…”

“Too bad you came alone, huh?” A woman taunts in a Harley Quinn-esque accent, cackling.

Domino flips the blade around in their hand, gripping it tightly in a fist. “Bad news fer _ you_.” With that, they lunge for the nearest gang member, whipping the gun from its holster and firing haphazardly to their left as they do. 

From there, all hell breaks loose.

* * *

They pant, straightening up, wincing with one paw over a particularly nasty slash they got on their arm. It’ll be fine if they tie something-or-other to it, or slap a McDonald’s napkin to it ’til it quits oozing. “This could’a been so _ easy _ ,” they huff, pacing around the knocked-out-or-otherwise-incapacitated members of the gang, looking for some sign of consciousness out of any of them. “Y’all _ had _ to make it hard, didn’t’cha?” They eventually stop in front of one groaning man whose blonde hair is stuck to his forehead by blood from a small nick in his scalp. “Yer hardier than the rest, ain’t ya?” They comment, lifting him by his hair.

“_Ow_! What the _ hell_, man?”

“_Who _ wanted Flint Paper?” They demand, glaring. 

He groans, cringing in pain. “I… I dunno. I wasn’t part’a the dealings—”

“Where’d ya drop him off, then? Don’t make me **slash** ya!” Domino shakes him not very gently and he yowls.

“Forgotten Island! Forgotten Island! Guy wanted him at Forgotten Island so we shipped him off there inna _ box _ or some shit I guess!” He lifts a weak hand to claw at them but they drop him, stepping back. 

“Shit. I’ll havta catch a ferry,” they growl. They hate boats. And water, to some degree. But they’re relieved to know where Flint is, finally. “Thanks fer the tip.” They look around to make sure they’re not leaving any knives behind before taking off, sprinting back out the way they came. They don’t know what the ferries’ schedules are, but they’d like to get there quick, to catch the earliest one they can. 

When they reach the docks, the sun is beginning to rise, and the gold glow made sneaking onto the ferry a difficult task. Still, they manage to haul themself up onto the deck, quickly scrabbling behind some crates, assuming they’ve gone unnoticed when they don’t immediately hear someone ask what in the hell a poodle is doing clawing their way up the boat.

“Yew hear somefink?” They hear a human male voice ask, and footsteps thump on the waterlogged wood deck, approaching their spot, though not directly or with purpose.

“Nah. Pretty sure that’s yer head ’gain, pal.” A different voice answers, and they hear the footsteps stop, then head a different way.

“Yeah, yer pro’lly roight.” The voice fades from their hearing range, and they quickly peer around the boxes to take stock of what’s around them. It’s mostly just the usual haphazardly-arranged boat debris, so they decide to stay put; Forgotten Island is mostly a spot for factories or something (at least, they’d always assumed that, given the smog hanging around it) so they presume these crates are full of equipment. Shipping Flint there in a box would be a pretty smart move, actually, especially given nobody checks the cargo on this river, lest there be any unpleasant decaying surprises. There’s a reason the river’s nicknamed Body Disposal River.

They just hope whoever loaded and unloaded that box didn’t throw it around too much.

Seasickness is as unpleasant as they remember it being, but they’re hoping maybe it’ll go away with time. They stand in a less-traveled spot of the docks, huddled behind a crate, and wheezing a bit until the nausea goes away. Thank god they held it together on the ship, at least. They straighten up with a deep inhale, then sigh, looking around. Now they just have to figure out where the hell Flint would have been taken from here… and if that means combing the entire island for days, well, they’re prepared to do it. 

But they seriously have no idea where to go from here. 

Domino puts a paw to their chin, thinking carefully, trying to pull on something they’ve heard about Forgotten Island, _ anything_, but they come up empty. They’ve never been here before, so they really have no clue where in the hell to go, and they’re starting to get tired… It’s been one helluva night, but they can’t stop now. Stepping out from behind the crate, they glance left and right, then head around it toward the nearest street—as good a spot to start as any—aiming to stop at the first cafe they see for some strong coffee, but they freeze when they catch wind of an interesting conversation behind them. Ducking behind a different shipping crate, they lift both ears as high as they can, trying their hardest to eavesdrop. 

“You remember that shipment Wednesday? Weird shit, right?” The voice is distinctly American, maybe midwestern, oddly enough. 

“Whaddaya mean? Wasn’t weirder than the normal shit.” The second one sounds more familiar to them—an overseas accent. One muddled by travel, it seems, much like them.

“Nah, nah, not the boxes, the dude who picked em up.” Domino shrinks back as two humans walk right past them, thankfully not spotting the poodle crouched where a poodle shouldn’t be. “That weird fucken’… scientist dude. Looked like a weird cliche mad scientist, remember? Somethin’ right out of an 80’s movie.” The two are clearly on break, or maybe slacking off—Domino really doesn’t care—as they’re being quite inattentive.

“Yer gonna have to get more used to New York, pal. That guy’s middle-of-the-road if anythin’...” The voices trail off, too far for Domino to hear. They peer around the corner, and catch the tail end of a word, but not enough to understand it, before the two dip into a side street.

“Dammit.” They step out from behind the crate, about to grumble something about not hearing enough, when suddenly they get an idea. It isn’t like them to menace average citizens, but this is dire straits; they take off running down the street, aiming to catch up with those two no matter what it takes. They grab onto the side of the wall as they pass, swinging into the side-street, and yell, “**_Hey_**!” 

Both humans turn to look, confusion on one face and alarm on the other. “What the hell?” One manages as Domino barrels right for them. 

“Don’t run! I gotta question!” They yell as they skid to a stop, knowing the alarmed-looking guy was about to try and make a break for it.

“Jeez, kid, the hell?” The other gives them a thoroughly-weirded-out stare. 

“That shipment,” they pant, “the Wednesday shipment—Where’d the scientist guy take it?”

“Uhh…” He blinks down at them, then glances to his cohort.

“Headed West with it.” The other supplies. “We dunno where it ended up, that’s not our job.”

“West.” They wheeze, straightening up. “Okay. Thanks.” 

“Why do you wanna—”

“Bolt yer rocket!” They yell, whirling around to run off back to the main street. 

A long pause follows as Domino disappears from their sight.

“Feckin’ weird.” The less-alarmed man comments. “Haven’t ‘eard that one since I left Ayrshire.” 

“What’s it mean?” 

“‘Fuck off.’”

“...Pretty rude, then.” 

“Eh. Kids.” 

* * *

Throwing a human is the easy part of picking up and throwing a human. Having good aim with throwing said human, though, is the most difficult part of all, and everything about what they’d hoped would be a domino effect (and yes, that pun is intentional) looked much, much cooler in their head. They wheeze, shaking their arms a bit—they’re doing that weird thing where they’re not quite trembling, but buzzing with the pain of the stupid thing Domino just tried to do—and backing up as the thrown guard gets to her feet lethargically, the other pointing a pistol in their direction. They spring to one side as a shot goes off, then sprint forward and tackle that one to the ground, throwing all of what little body weight they have into it. The guard hits the floor with a loud _ oof _, and they immediately spring half up to claw at them; instinctively the human puts up both arms to protect their face, and the poodle sinks their teeth into the arm holding the gun, using one hand to yank the gun out of the guard’s grip as they scream. They raise the gun then bring it down swiftly, whacking them in the head with the butt end of it, and the scream stops. The guard flops down, unconscious, and Domino stands up.

“Ya oughta bathe more,” they remark, spitting on the ground before being almost knocked down again by a punch from the other guard, dropping the gun reflexively as stars explode behind their eyelids. “Oh, right,” they groan, staggering back and trying (and halfway failing) to block a second punch, “I fergot ’bout you.”

“You won’t make that mistake twice.” The guard growls, kicking them in the gut, hard.

“Yer right about that,” they manage through a grimace, one paw snapping out to grab the human’s leg and twist it, sending her down again. They pull the pistol from its holster and load it, making sure to make as much noise with it as possible. “Stay down.”

She freezes, looking up at them, then lifts one hand to surrender. “Alright.” 

“Where’s Flint?” They level the gun at her head. 

“Who?” She gives them a confused look.

They growl, but when she doesn’t cave in and tell them they realize she might genuinely not know. “Human. About six foot, black-and-grey hair, permanent five’o’clock shadow, red tie?” The guard still looks baffled. “Came here in a box?”

Now the guard looks shocked. “There was a _ guy _ in there?!” She gasps.

They restrain the impulse to face-palm. “Yeahr. Where’d they take the box?” They take a half-pace forward.

She scrabbles backward. “The rocket chamber! Pretty much every corridor leads there eventually, just follow the signs for it!” 

“Thanks.” They lower the gun and shoot her in the foot, evoking an agonized howl. “Sorry. Jus’ makin’ sure ya won’t get any bright ideas an’ follow me.” They bend over and nab the walkie-talkie off her waistband as well, then walk further into the facility, listening to its chatter. They tiptoe along, keeping a careful ear out, but despite the radio sputtering with random jargon they don’t see another soul. Doing as they were told, they follow little signs and guides to the rocket chamber, eventually putting their gun back in its holster when they realize this place is either horribly understaffed or incompetently staffed.

Eventually, they reach the door to the rocket chamber, marked clearly with “ROCKET CHAMBER // AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY //,” a set of double-doors they gingerly push open, discarding the walkie-talkie as they do. They’ll need both paws free, they presume.

In front of them is an alarmingly white room. The door opens to a wide raised platform, or perhaps the floor beyond it is sunken in; either way, that’s not what’s important. Illuminated by the cheap square fluorescent lights, tied to the side of a large rocket with thick ropes, is a familiar human form in a loose off-white shirt and red tie with salt-and-pepper hair. They perk up immediately, both relieved he’s still alive and incredibly alarmed by his current predicament.

Before them stands a man in a white lab coat, hunched over with his back to them, who whirls around the moment he hears the clack of their claws on the smooth flooring. Now they can see he was hunched over some kind of control panel with far too many buttons; he’s wearing quite the unassuming collared-shirt-and-trousers combination, glasses perched on a wide nose. They’re smudged but behind them, Domino can see wild blue eyes and dark brown eyebrows that could really use some kind of grooming; they look like angry caterpillars with intense bedhead.

“Let him go,” they snarl at him, teeth bared. 

“Oh, Domino!” Flint calls down as if he’s not currently restrained and in imminent danger. “Good to see you, kiddo.”

“I’ll get’cha down from there, Dad,” They promise, stepping forward again, then realize what they’ve said and freeze, stammering, “I, erh, I mean, Flint.” 

“You won’t win, whoever-you-are!” The man standing in front of the control panel declares quite boldly, producing a futuristic-looking gun from his lab coat. 

They whip a throwing-knife from their belt, striking the gun and knocking it clear out of the man’s hand. He yelps in shock, turning to look, as they snarl, “I could say the same to you, pal.” 

To the guy’s credit, he recovers his composure well, leaning back and using his whole body to cover the console, one hand on either edge of it. “If you take another step, I’ll launch your father into space!” He lifts one hand to hover threateningly over the big red button.

They whip out their pistol, aiming it for his heart. “Ya do that. See where it gets ya.” Before they can say any more, though, a sudden arm snakes around their neck and yanks them backward and off the ground. They yelp, trying to turn the pistol around, but it’s wrenched from their grip by another set of hands. Security. Dammit, of _ course _ —why did they think the two they knocked out earlier were all there would be?! “_Fuck!_” They choke out in a frustrated snarl as the grip on their throat tightens.

“Clarence, go easy on them.” The man in the lab coat says in sickly-kind tone, “I’d like them to be able to watch my triumph.”

Clarence stops strangling them, but still holds them by the throat with his arm. They reach up to try and claw at him, but someone else they can’t see around the arm grabs their hands, and they don’t know which direction to kick. Fury and frustration compounds and they snarl, flailing uselessly. “Who th’hell _ are _ ya?!” They manage, tilting their head to glare at him.

“I am the great Doctor Finite,” he puffs up like a peacock, grinning madly, “and with _ Flint Paper_ out of the way I will _ finally _ be able to fulfill my lifelong dream of plunging New York into a monarchy with _ me _ as its king! And I don’t care _ who _ you are, _ Flint Junior_,” he jabs a finger toward the restrained dog, “but I’ll take _ you _ out too, if you’re aiming to be a pain as well.”

“Buddy-boy, you’ve no idea how much a _ pain _ I’monna be,” they snarl, suddenly thrashing in the guard’s grip, twisting their wrists free of the other guy’s clutches. The man holding them yells in pain as they score their claws down the exposed flesh of his arm, and his grip loosens instinctively. They slip out of it, whirling around to punch him in the nose, and he reels back, stunned. Now they can see the man who had been holding their hands; he lunges at them with the intent to restrain them again. They duck back, ripping a knife free from their belt—their trusty switchblade—and slashing it down the back of his arm. He cries out but doesn’t relent, and they dance backward as he swings at them, enraged, to the point that they find themself scrambling backwards, being placed on the defensive by his barrage—That is, until they sink their knife into his shoulder and their jaws into his arm, letting the other one hit them repeatedly as they clamp down and shake their head, hard. 

He screeches and changes his focus, now smacking at their head to get them to let go, which they do, though not before yanking out their switchblade and tucking it away again. He staggers back, holding his arm, and upon seeing all of the blood simply faints, falling to the ground. Domino wipes their muzzle, spitting onto the floor. If the head-smacking made them dizzy at all, they’re good at hiding it. The man they clocked in the nose—Clarence—leaps at them, grimacing angrily, and they duck to one side, letting him stumble past them before lashing out with one leg. Off-balance, the human falls onto his side, and they spring onto him, knocking his lights out in a few punches.

All of this is quite the spectacle for Flint, still tied to the rocket. He watches the bloodbath, wanting to cheer Domino on but knowing better than to break their concentration. It’s oddly fascinating for him to have a vantage point like this, given he’s typically been fighting alongside them. He’d seen them fight before, of course, but not like this. He knew them to bite and claw and generally have no morals but they rarely if ever bit hard enough to draw blood, let alone bite, clamp down, and shake vigorously enough to _ tear _ like that—and yet here they are. He supposes this is a no-holds-barred sort of situation, and that makes sense, but… They seem eerily in their element. They don’t fight with _ obvious _ desperation. _ He _ knows they’re desperate simply because he knows them, but they just seem to be savage _ rage _ in dog form. Snarling, biting, **ruthless**. 

Where did they learn that? How did they pick up something like this? Why does it seem so natural to them? That last question is perhaps the most concerning. He knows they have some form of a checkered past, but maybe it’s worse than he worried.

They stand up, wiping their knuckles off on their shirt, then train their focus on the (now mildly terrified) Doctor Finite, who puts up one hand, other hovering over that button. “** _You_ **.” They snarl.

“N-Not _ another _ move!” He manages, “Or, or I’ll _ blast _ him into _ space_!” In response, they wordlessly withdraw a knife from the back of their belt, looking around as if thinking. From his perspective, it looks like they’re just rubbing their lower back, like it hurts, until their head whips back around and before he can say another word a knife sinks into the hand over the button. The force of the throw shoves his hand off the console, as well, though it doesn’t do more than distract him (minus the agony and blood and all).

Lucky for Domino, a distraction is all they need; he turns back around just in time to get punched right in the face, knocking him to the floor. “If yer smart, ya oughta stay down.” They bare their teeth at him, and he scrambles away from them as fast as he can, holding his hand and weeping. 

They vault over the console platform, falling down to where the rocket is seated, rolling with the impact. They scrabble their way up it, claws digging into the metal and scratching it up terribly, and with only a bit of wheezing they finally reach Flint, yanking out another knife to hack at the ropes.

“Nicely done,” Flint remarks with a grin. 

“Thanks,” they manage, panting. 

Once the ropes are cut, the two slide off the rocket, landing on the ground, Flint a bit unsteadily, but luckily Domino steadies him with one paw. He straightens up, dusts himself off, then turns to them with a grin. “Good job, kiddo!” He pulls them into what was meant to be a typical quick hug, but they don’t let go right away, squeezing him tightly close for a moment before relaxing. He grins, ruffling their hair fondly as they step back again. He gets a contemplative look on his face for a moment, looking down at them, and they return it with a quizzical bent to it; Flint opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but unfortunately right as he begins, the door blasts open, catching both their attention, and in it stands the Freelance Police, guns waving, grinning enthusiastically. 

“Sorry, lads, ya missed the excitement,” Domino informs them in a genuinely apologetic tone. 

“Aww, what!” Max almost drops his gun, he’s so disappointed. Sam just straightens up with a sad huff, putting his gun away. 

“Gee, Flint, I wouldn’t have figured anything or anybody could get the drop on you!” Sam comments lightheartedly as he steps up to meet them.

“Yeah,” Max chimes in with a bit more of a snarky edge to his voice, “what, has becoming a dad made you _ soft _ or something?”

Sam lifts a paw to smack him as guilt flickers across Domino’s face but both are stopped when Flint laughs. “Don’t be silly, fuzzy pal! _ Everybody _ has off days. Besides!” He gently smacks Domino on the back in a you-old-sport kinda way, “If it weren’t for Domino, I might’ve been stuck here for _ another _ two days!” 

“Weird way of lookin’ at it,” Max remarks. 

“But it makes sense,” Sam adds, simply to save grace. Neither looks like they particularly care to understand it, anyhow. “Well, anyways—Need a ride back to the office?”

“Wouldn’t protest it!” Flint grins at them. “They made me get in their stupid little Kia, so I had to leave my car behind.” 

Sam turns to look at Domino. “How the hell did you get here ahead of us?” 

The younger dog shrugs. “Buses were… efficient, this time,” They lie easily, though they know he’s intending to ask how they put the pieces together so fast. 

“Isn’t there no bridge over here?” Flint frowns. 

“We converted the DeSoto into an amphibious vehicle,” Sam waves a hand. 

“Now it’s like me!” Max chirps, grinning widely. 

Domino refrains from asking what in the hell that means, instead jamming their paws in their pockets. “Lessgo, then. I’m tired a’this island.” 

“Me too, fluffy pal.” 

* * *

It didn’t seem practical to Domino to keep the top down on the DeSoto if it wasn’t meant to skim the top of the water, but they didn’t protest it after Sam said it was Max’s idea. They’d figured out that most of Max’s ideas were something he heavily insisted on and his partner could do little about, though it seemed he often would genuinely humor the lagomorph. Except when he asked to drive. 

They settle into the back of the Desoto a little gingerly. There’s a lot of rubbish back here—food wrappers, actual food, a few brochures and tourist maps from places they assume the Freelance Police have visited (which is actually kinda interesting, to them. Where-all have the duo gone, and are they places Domino hasn’t even heard of?)—so they sweep as much off the backseats as they can when Flint opens the other door. He doesn’t even bat an eye at the mess and just shoves a package of Ho-Ho’s out of his way to sit down. He slams the door behind him as Sam revs the engine, and Domino only glances around briefly for a seatbelt before realizing the DeSoto doesn’t have any; they suppose if they die now, it’d just be funny, and settle into their seat with a little sigh of exhaustion. Flint pats Domino on the shoulder. “You used the detective skills I taught ya, right?”

“Yeahr,” they reply, a bit puzzled.

He thumps them on the arm playfully. “_That’s _ my kid!” 

“Not like it’s a difficult feat,” they point out with a touch of bemusement. 

“That’s even better!” Flint grins. “If it’s natural to you, I’m doing my job right!” 

Before they can answer, Sam stomps on the gas pedal and the car goes careening off the edge of the pier. They impulsively claw at the back of the seat ahead of them, gripping it tightly, and Max whoops joyfully when the car splashes into the bay. The water only rises partway up the DeSoto, thankfully, but Domino still eyes it warily as the vehicle takes off toward the nearest shore. If it sank, they’d really be screwed—or Flint would just have to turn around and rescue them right after they’ve rescued him. 

They scoot a little closer to the middle of the car. 

Almost unnervingly, Flint didn’t seem bothered by any of it in the slightest, not even when Sam tried to ‘drift’ in order to splash up a big wave. They found themself looking over at his neutral expression and wondering when, if ever, they’d be so well-adjusted to this insanity. They kinda hoped it happened sometime soon, or they might keel over from the anxiety.

They turn their focus to the front, peering past Max’s seat to look at the waters ahead with mild curiosity, when they feel a hand ruffle through their hair, drawing their attention back to Flint. They lean into it, suddenly realizing how damned exhausted they are, and he puts one arm over them for a side-hug. They genuinely haven’t slept a moment since they found that note, and now they feel like they might actually fall asleep before they reach shore. “I’m proud of you, Domino.” He says quietly, patting them on the shoulder, resting his chin in their hair. 

They freeze, astonished, and immediately feel their eyes well up with tears. Something about the tone of the words, maybe compounded with the situation, hits close to home, and they shut their eyes, repressing a whine, and just shove their face into his chest. He pats them reassuringly, ruffling through their hair again. “There, there, kiddo. S’alright.” 

“I’m glad yer okay,” they manage hoarsely. 

They get just a split second of a pleasant moment before Max’s shrill voice interrupts. “Aww, are you two having a family bonding moment?” 

Domino sighs and sits up proper to glare at him. “Haud yer wheesht, will ya?” 

“Hey, this is _ our _ car, puppy!” Max points out, jabbing a finger in their face. “If you don’t like it, you can swim to shore!” 

“Really can’t,” they mumble, sinking down in their seat a bit as Sam continues to drive unsteadily for the mainland. It won’t be a long trip at this pace, but it’s sure a bumpy one, and they’re already starting to feel a little queasy.

“You alright?” Flint nudges them.

“Jus’ peachy,” they lie, pressing their paws to their temples. Hopefully they can survive this last leg of the journey before they get to go home and pass out for a day… 

* * *

Sam and Max agreed to drive the duo to Flint’s apartment in order to drop him off first. On the way there, Domino is already passing out every now and then, having to not-so-surreptitiously shake themself awake, which is quite the feat considering the way Sam drives. The DeSoto skids to a stop in front of his apartment and they jolt awake again, shaking their head hard enough to make their ears flop against their head noisily. “Alright, Flint, we’re here!” Sam announces cheerfully. 

“Thanks for the lift, fellas.” He pops open the backdoor. “C’mon, Domino.”

“Huh?” They blink, perplexed.

He extends a hand to them. “Come on.” They really don’t have the wherewithal to argue, and just accept his help out of the car, shutting the door behind them. Flint waves to Sam and Max. “Thanks for all the help, really.”

“Anything for you, Flint!” Max chirps, stepping into Sam’s lap to lean out the window.

Sam rests his elbow on the window, leaning his head out slightly to grin up at them. “Really, if you need any help at all, don’t hesitate.” 

“Well, I appreciate it, furry pals.” 

“Go get some sleep,” Max waves as Sam moves to start driving off. “You especially, Domino, you look like hell.”

“Thanks.” They deadpan as the DeSoto screeches off, leaving them behind in the dust cloud. 

Flint chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s not a bad idea! I’m dead tired. You?” 

“Right scunnered.” They sigh. 

He claps a hand on their shoulder gently, and they glance up at him; right as they open their mouth to ask how they’re going to get home, he says, bluntly, as if he’d been thinking on it long enough to decide to just say it with no decorum whatsoever, “I was pretty worried about you. Would you stay the night? I’ve got a guest-room you can stay in. It’s fine if you don’t want to, though.” 

Domino thinks for a second. They’re far too exhausted to consider getting the bus home, and Joey knows they’ll be gone for a while (though they really ought call her), and on another level they’d never admit to, they’re worried something else might happen to Flint if they go home again and leave him alone. They’re tired enough at this point that things don’t feel entirely real. “Yeahr, alright,” they nod, “long as I can borr’w yer phone t’call Joey, let ’er know I’m a’ight.” 

“For sure,” he grins, turning to head into his apartment. 

* * *

“Well, it’s not much, but it’s _ somethin’_, you know?” He flicks the light on and they blink in surprise. It’s an unusually clean room, albeit small (but not as small as the one in their own apartment), with the bed taking up most of the space in it. It has a quilt draped over it, clearly an old gift, and two overlarge pillows. On one side is a nightstand, on the other a narrow, tall wardrobe, and the walls are a pale blue. The carpet is off-white and soft under their feet, a contrast to the heavily-trodden, flattened dark carpeting in some spots of their own apartment.

It’s not much, but it’s way more than they’d ever had. They gaze around in mild astonishment. “It… It’s great,” they manage. “Thanks, Da—_ahem!_—Flint.” They look at the floor, a little embarrassed. 

To his credit, Flint just breezes right past it. “Get some sleep, Domino,” he replies warmly, moving to leave. 

They spin about to face him. “You’ll still be there when I wake up, right?” They ask, their tone trying and failing to be casual to cover up the worry. 

Flint ruffles their hair. “For sure, peanut.” He moves to leave again but their paw snaps out and gently snags his wrist, catching his attention again.

“...Promise?” They mumble, peering up at him.

He smiles gently down at them, resting his other hand on their paw. “Promise.” 

They begrudgingly let go. “...Alright.” 

“G’night, Domino.” 

“’Night, Flint.”

  
  



End file.
